How did I ever got so far away from myself?
Everything passes through me, passes on, passes away. Receding on the tide.
All is impermanence.
Sometimes I dream, strange sweating twisting bed-writhing dreams, and when I wake I touch myself, touch my body all over. Fingers on skin. Pleasure is only a memory, only spikes as sharp as pain and vanishing into memory so slippery and difficult to hold onto.
Is this my true body? Am I this thing? I think sometimes I could put my hand through myself. Reach down my mouth and swallow my heart. Tear open this thing and spread it out to look at it, to pick through it.
Time slips away. I can’t make myself care anymore, not about anything. One by one the days disappear. I feel each one in my gut and in my bones. Each moment is an ache. There is only the love of self. Only existence. Here am I grazing placid as water. Eating for pleasure. Buying for pleasure. Always consuming.
Just keep smiling.
What is it anyway? What is this?
I still feel like a child most times. Sexless child crawling inside myself, growing myself in my own womb. Everything is birth and death and grasping for something far off. Reaching for the stars, for the hollow heat of that ancient far off light.