My Medicine

My girl casually remarked today that I write only sad and insecure stuff. Not a very hard observation to make. Something that reminded me of another little pattern: every time I’ve decided to write something funny, I’ve ended up with a really nice short story. But it is really hard for me to go against myself, even to write an innocuous little story. Every time I stare at the blank screen when I’ve decided to fill it up with myself, my heart churns out copious amounts of sadness. I’ve gotten too much of it. I feel like a phony when I’m not writing. I am forced to wonder how much of my constitution is melancholia. The answer, I feel, only adds to the existing melancholia.

There are definitely moments when I am happy, when I am a man of the moment, but sometimes the moments get so hot, so unreal, that I have no recourse other than to go searching for some cushions in my past. It occurs with such a degree of inevitability that I feel like I’ll soon become a resigned fatalist. Or worse, a believer. Reality is a hard bargain, and I often find myself making costly purchases, which makes it really tough to avoid hanging out in the past for relief.

I sometimes feel I write only because I am sick, in the head, and writing is my medicine. I then feel sick at the thought of writing only to cure myself, contrary to my held assumptions of writing because I love writing. I am tired of climbing this mountain just to look at myself, then falling back again to being myself. I want to lie on the ground and enjoy the sun. I don’t want to be Sisyphus any more, I don’t want wisdom so immense that I cannot handle it. I want a mosquito to bite me so I can chase and kill it, be engaged in anything but myself. There, I start again. And again. I want to end this infinite recursion, but I want to be sane as well. In short, I am just scared.

I think this much should be enough. I’m getting more tired of all of this by the minute, by the word.

In the Nude

I need to keep myself occupied, or I will regress. I am a coward, sure, but I must live on. I picked up a book the other day, wait, why am I telling you this? But I do need to keep myself occupied. So, I picked up a book the other day. Picked up, hmm, interesting phrase. Strange how things acquire different meanings just through intonations and repetitions. I need to see a psychiatrist. I also should take a bath.

I saw a girl the other day, very sensual. Gave me a boner. Wanted to fuck her right on the road. Thought against it, thought about not thinking too much. I hope they have medicine for me, for whatever is wrong with me. I am fucked up. But I have a choice: to remain fucked up, or to become sane. Being fucked up has its advantages. I am superior.

I am easily startled. A phone call makes me jump. Sometimes I shriek on seeing my own hands. Doctor told me to write so I don’t think too much. Stupid doctor. I am confused. Does he know anything at all? I am superior to him. I follow patterns hard to decode, that’s all.

This is surely not worth posting. I am doing injustice to good thought. I am writing purely for writing sake. I should look around, for inspiration. Oh no, I shouldn’t. I might see something scary. That would scare me to death. But I am not afraid of death. I am afraid of fear. The doctor can never understand this. He has never felt like me.

I am a liar. I can lie very effectively and can convince myself as well. Believing in my own lie. Isn’t that an expression? I don’t know. Don’t want to look it up. I am too scared that I might find other paranoid people. That will make me a nobody in my own eyes. Why can’t I have an erection? Erica Campbell’s been touching herself for too long. I should just shake it till I come. Yeah, that’ll do it.