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.

Lost

I need to be cathartic again. Days like these I feel vacant - empty except for this huge stone that weighs at the centre of my chest. I feel like I want to cry, need to cry, but I can't. It just would not come out. The gravity of depression centres like a maelstrom inside me.

I am not prone to self-pity and neither am I prone to express such repressiveness. To others I am a pillar of security; a stone of such magnificent proportions because I never cower to the weathers of anxiety or worry. But the stone is cold friends. It is as cold as the mountains that grace the earth with magnificence. I am magnificent, and I am crumbling within.

There are days, such as these, where I cannot find contentment in solitude. I hate this fucking solitude. I am so lonely. I want the comfort of arms - strong and enabling; I desire flesh - warm and odorous; I crave moistness - tears that would find a crevice to fill. Where is this body? There are so many yet each seek the ephemerality of jouissance that expires by the morn. I seek the solidity of the earth and to lavish in the scented dew of twilight that scintillates on my nakedness. I seek this earth-form that would shape before my eyes without hessitation or nervousness. He that makes me as I sustain him. But by morning I will rise again to only the wafting scent of what-may-have-been.

As I express my vulnerability there will be those who would laugh at my naivity - perhaps my romantic stupidity. No such man, no such being, no such soul. Oh, hear you me, I have heard the platitudes a thousand times. Don't worry dear, he will come along just fine. Oh! Don't be silly! You're still young! That handsome chap would come along before you know it. I don't want him now. I'm already sick of waiting.

I stand here like the stone that I am - that I should be - because I am impenetrable. I have built this magnificent statue of mortar and stone with my swollen hands because I detest vulnerability. I am impenetrable because I fear to lose control. I NEVER lose control. Stupid, stupid, stupid me. I am stupid. I am arrogant. I am a fool.

Take me to a place that says no more and hears no more. Take me to a far-away land like the stories I read as a child. Take me to colours and clouds that fluffs in the wind where no soul ever lost tears to shed. Make me whole again so that I can find comfort in solitude. And hold my hands some fairy prince so that I may cry again.