A LONELY MOMENT - with the muse.

STILL THINKING OF YOU SIR... COME FUCK MY UNDONE BODY AND TOGETHER WE'LL RAVEL OURSELVES BACK UP BUT THIS TIME OUR LIVES INTERTWINED.

I wanna talk about you again, so that’s why I came here, to your namesake newsletter. Chase ‘in the’ Muse. I’m still so into you. I miss you and want you even more now I know I don’t even have you on my side, in my orbit, in my mind much anymore. What I do have is an ever icier solitude. Your absence is the acid trip of the blind man; I’m left with pure consciousness turned in on itself and not in the same way as cocaine, which if you’re wondering, it has been exactly forty-two days since I took any and I am still paying it off up until next month or something. There is a great big shit of a world out there and it doesn’t just end at my doorstep. I have come to realise that you were too much too similar to the first guy who I compared you to and just like him you vaguely cared as you were fading away. He stopped communicating too, only to call me and play acting for whoever was there to see. They witnessed the performance of his life but that’s some other story for some other life that was wiped clean out the moment I first set my eyes onto you. Until then I was starved of his affection, attention and action.

I find myself unarmed against the hunger I have to touch you, to feel you, to breathe you in and to hold you or better still be held by you skin to skin. I walk with you by your side which I don’t do with him. On a good day I drop behind and in line following because he walks too slow, easy breezy, having a nice stroll because, as Kincade says, he’s an arsehole. If I take the lead as I sometimes do… I’m walking too fast, hitting A to B too soon. It’s not a good thing that I do. It ain’t no superpower or anything to be proud of… It’s anxiety and a need to get shit done and fuck off back to my comfort zone. Home is where I can take a shit good, home is where I can fling the bra off, remove the socks and take off my pants (I haven't done the pants-off habit at home - not since last weekend where, I ended up that way in the street in town, in the pouring rain with my fanny almost out). Again, some other sad story, one to show up online in video format from some other sad arsehole’s point of view. It’s nothing of concern to you. Nothing that I go through, none of my feelings or worries or activities interest you no more. 

I seem to believe, in my own quiet consciousness, although recently shared in a discussion with a friend of mine, that, you are still out there somewhere familiar; still doing your thing, still being you - only in a brand new location, a secret station and not on vacation but it’s true that only those on your List get in or any information. My number never came up, did it? Why!!? Is it because I mentioned that I would never give up this fight for my relationship?  I also said that I’d never jump ship. Did I mean it? Yes I did, had I even uttered a clue that we wouldn’t need a fucking boat or two, that if you pulled me in the vast ocean of love with you - I would still swim next to you going with you forward and far away from all of this. I meant to say it. I just knew that we’d get tired too soon and need a lifesaver or two. Basically, I might have liked the idea of treading water with you by my side and who knows, if a wardrobe door happened to float by I would definitely elevate you and throw you on top of it. If it doesn’t sink we can call it Narnia. The point is this. You never tried. You might have implied something I have been gagging for other than the big L word but I don’t need the L word anymore anyway and by L I’m not talking pussy. I noticed you backed away when I needed you the most, pussy is all I had to offer as it’s his only, VICE mine was like the bad penny you’d find stuck to the bottom of your handbag, caked in lipstick from old dates, with Rizla paper stuck on it and pen ink all over the face of it but it was still legal tender… still, some sort of currency.

VICE: a taste for failure against the blinding light of rationality, adaption, survival - we have only the solace of darkness. - SARTRE

My own fault, I blame myself entirely I didn’t get the side labels (those which come after the staple condition of schizofuckingfrenic) like these:

1. People pleaser 

2. Self sabotager 

3. Disruptive 

4. Argumentative 

The list still goes on… just wanted to name but a few. Even the most exciting and overloaded marathon coke session is only the compression of a lifetime of love addiction. Without you there I don’t feel my own flesh anymore. I feel like I’m made of fucking marble like those junkies I talked about in my Instagram poem, which I don’t have access to as I no longer own a phone (at least for the imminent future - pawning my phone was another act of defiance against myself) without it I won’t be able to constantly check in on you or check my previous message to see if you’ve replied; it was harmless anyway because as soon as you did say something or ‘reacted’ I deleted it anyway. I seem to glean something of extra strength when faced with having nothing at all, or less than before. I feel like I could own the entire world and if you weren’t part of it… I’d still have fuck all. I heard a thing about another thing from something I was beginning to read. I read up until this phrase and stopped - I’d hit the pipeline. I was being flooded from the leak in my soul and I knew right then and there that you were the only one who could possibly plug it. You wouldn’t and won’t but fuck it. 

Negative Capability: when someone is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts; without any irritable reaching after fact and reason. - John Keats (in a letter from John Keats to George and Tom Keats).

I thought that with you I could be insulated from the world, stop time fucking hammering at the door. I’m already just floating through the dark, hoping, and sure that all will ultimately be well. With or without you - well, obviously without. Since this fact I try to ensure that I will never again be exposed to my feelings. I won’t do coke anymore… inevitably it made me feel more but, I might have turned love into a drug when it needn’t be anything of the kind. I imagine fucking your body as my own wastes away, I feel like decay - that’s what a broken heart is. At least for the ‘girl’ in this old woman’s body who reads too much into the world and endlessly seeks validation from the WORDS of others. You were a man of very few words for me, scarce and far between. For some sort of dude who can talk for ENGLAND; you never seemed to have very much to say to me. I intend on finding my own bible and am currently seeking to source the following authors; maybe in there I shall find some kindred spirit, solace and wisdom in the words of others as discussed. 

Roland Barthes’ - A Lover’s Discourse 

Maurice Blanchot’s - Gaze of Orpheus

I’m going to cut this here because I feel like I am taking us farther away from the subject matter. I only write to try and turn my torment into words that might redeem me from the squalor of my everyday life; I’m sick of spectating my own implosion. I shall leave this one here and continue to hold my own in writing alone. I shall decimate this desolation as even the mere thought of you, him, the muse and the flight from my current mess and the perils within me, towards his arms, his neck, his ear to drop a tear or two in; this idea alone animates me. I’ve said this before that I don’t have a clue but even when I do have so many ideas, there’s no access to the money needed to turn those ideas into plans. I just want to write but have no idea what to write; I seem to believe that maybe I can simply be creative and it will somehow it will translate into sustenance. I have no idea of who I am and no authentic way to articulate my feelings for him or even how I fucking feel now.  I am just a mess of postures and attitudes that I attempt to express in strange ways. I think I need his moral (or mortal) encouragement back in my life at least but I’d never actually apply for a part as his apprentice in the crevices of carnal assistance. Why? Because: 

I sorely lack drive and discipline 

I have no useful hunger other than to eat him! 

I am profoundly unworthy 

I simply wish to be recognised for my writing and for a talent I don’t even believe I possess. I suspect every single day that I am living for nothing. I am keeping myself busy hunting oblivion. It’s as though at this point, to sidestep the glaring evidence that my lust for him and to love him - the muse - was different from his attention and time for me. He doesn’t lust his own life. How could he lust for me? Wherever I go is always a lonely moment. I really, really honestly cannot enter life alone. I hate the waiting though, stuck in stagnation, waiting for the final deterioration of what’s left of my soul. I thought he might save me and preserve me in some way and in return I would suck him off (all he put on the table) and secretly love him into oblivion with me but with the omnipotence of this loved up addiction to him, this hit, this fix, this drug - along came the paranoia. I have taken stock of my irremediable poverty of his friendship now since he fucked off. Perhaps, I’ll starve to death, curled up on my cold and greasy kitchen floor one night hoping that I don’t notify my soul of my whereabouts.

On this note I shall leave you with the EXIT SONG (an album) - Sly & The Family Stone - There’s A Riot Coming On, which is fast becoming the soundtrack to my Californiadreaming Consumptions of Loving HIM - you!!

The fucking MUSE and I pray and would actually beg that he comes back to me. If and when he does decide to do so only then, I could possibly approach life, for the very first time in a long time, with survival in mind.