Masturbating Phantasms

I'm tired. Tired of illusions that trail my shadow; tired of sweeping the wake of erotic phantasms that mock my efforts. I just can't play the game anymore.

I woke up one day from a fitful dream. My best friend masturbated before me. It was sudden and quite uneventful. It did not surprise me in the least that he would do something like that. It made sense. But then my lover - this shady body - walked towards me. He didn't say a word. His shoulders tensed and his face a stone carved from the fires of determination. He walked to the huddled, wanking figure on the side of the wall, crouched next to his hips, and joined in the release of muted affectivities.

I was fuming in jealousy. It didn't make sense. My lover was ephemeral. It should not have affected my senses. I walked to those insouciant bastards. They were enjoying the blisslessness of wanking together. I stood before them and gently masturbated - hessitantly and without joy. The heat rushed from my loins to the temperament that boiled repressively within me. There was nothing that I could do to stop them. A pair of Siamese twins joined together by the smell of their own narcissism. I realeased my organ and wiped the dirt on my fingers. I did not cum. He was no longer with me. He belonged to someone else, but not me.

And I realised, with a hollow pain, that there was again the malin genie in my life. Always there and never there. The hurt is so real but the body never graspable. I can't punch the asshole, I can't claw his face, I can't suck his lips till it bleeds; I'm just going insane. I woke up to that senseless thing next to me. Just the pillow warmed by my palpitating heart and glistening neck. My head throbbed and my lips were dry from breathing. I wanted it to just stop. It's losing control again. I must control It. This is stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

There was a time when all I dreamt about was being part of the phantasms of lust and decadence. Of course, I was always the watcher from the window, as dreams tend to be. Then there was another time when all I dreamt about was being that ignis fatuus that hovers nonchalantly between other eidolons of desire. Of course, I was always the frame-holder of windows, as dreams tend to make you be. And now... now I have finally grasped the illusion of bodies. These ghosts that whisper delicate, ambrosial words to my ears are now part of my fantasy. But what use are waking dreams when you can't sleep anymore? I seek something other now.

Perhaps one day I shall write about blossoming flowers and those ridiculous birds bursting in terrible ecstacy. Perhaps one day I'll see something other than grey clouds. But it's not today. Not today.