Month: April 2005

Trop de sommeil

I’ve been sleeping too much.

I wake up, and I want to stay in bed.

I get up, take a shower, and want to lay down on my large leather chair and close my eyes.

I get to work and I want to listen to classical music and forget where I am.

Too much sleep is a classic sign of depression. But I’m not depressed. I know this because I became intimately familar with depression in my adolesence. I never tested the bottom of that dark river – never felt true despair. In fact, there was a certain comfort in the melancholic embrace it had – it gave me permission to withdraw. But it was a temporary retreat, a false promise of solace that lead nowhere.

So why am I so…unmotiviated? I am still engaged in life – I do things. But I have no great challenge, no great reason.

Decent well-paying job? Check.
Nice, if small, house? Check.
Good friends? Check.

Maybe I just need a vacation.

Indefinable Belief, Satiate and Submit

Just how hungry am I?

Hungry enough to strip you bare and then clothe you in the firm grip of hands that know the fine places to touch you – the places that make you go weak in the knees while anticipation drives your pulse to race and your skin to tingle. Hungry enough to reveal you layer by layer – removing all pretension and lies until you are completely exposed and yet anonymous in the truth of who and what you are.

Naked, you feel everything.

Hungry enough to see just how far you’ll go to find the edge. To see your boundaries – to push you over with one hand while keeping your head above water with the other. Drown you in heat while giving you breath in kisses that never quite end, but move one into another, on lips, neck, curves.

Hungry enough to whisper of things that you’ve often thought of but never let touch your lips. Hungry enough to make you speak words that burn when spoken but taste like sweet indulgence. Hungry enough to draw out each desire with fingertips that find the most sensitive spots – just behind your knees, the small of your back, the side of your neck; fingertips that write naughty poetry on your thighs; fingertips that speak in a language you have to lose yourself in to understand.

Hungry enough to trap you. Have you ever been caught in a gaze that knows you better then you know yourself? Knows which way you’re going to run? Knows where you are most vulnerable? Knows how to go for your throat – and wants you to know he can. And he waits, until the tension is sharp enough that the delicate coiled heat inside of you can be set off with just one touch, one word.

Hungry enough to teach you what it means to be so bad that it feels good – and reminds you that you are, indeed, *alive*.

How hungry are you?

One Voice

Why do so many people, including me, find themselves putting up their personal thoughts, detailing life’s minutiae, expounding on the pros and cons of Kerry, euthanasia, and cunninglinus?

I can guess; some of it must derive from the human need to connect to others, to share. Some of it must be the writer in us finally being given space to exist. Some of it must be our desire to leave a written legacy, something that says we were here – we thought – we blogged. And some of it – perhaps a lot of it – is our attempt to get attention.

Me! Me! Over here! Helllo! Pay attention! Pay attentttttion!

Seriously, though – we all want to think we are unique, special – and we want recognition of this. And, well, yes – as individuals, we are quite different from each other. But being a human – one of billions, stretching back thousands of years – really, as a rule, we’re not likely to say something that hasn’t been said before.

So why do it?

There are quite a lot of people livejournalling, blogging, RnR Craiglist posting; but it’s not the number of people doing it that surprises me – it’s the fact that there are so many doing it well; that fact makes me pause. So many people who can write in such a fashion and about things that are so interesting that you want to read on. You want to unravel the serial adventures of their lives, you want to know what they think about tongue piercings, copyright law, and their mother’s broken car.

Therapy for the masses? Still debating this with myself. In the mean time though, I have to go read how that postal work’s affair with his mother-in-law is working out…