“There is much to be said for contentment and painlessness, for these bearable and submissive days, on which neither pain nor pleasure cry out, on which everything only whispers and tiptoes around. Then, in desperation, I have to escape into other regions, if possible on the road to pleasure, or, if that cannot be, on the road to pain.” Hermann Hesse
We walked down the same roads thousands of times, sucked by the seeming meaninglessness, the phantom of what we had once believed to be a true living, the shameful pursuit of love and pleasure, its fleeting significance and vulgar persistent repetitive journey. Where were we going every day? What did we want out of life? Everything was half-said, half-true, half-open. The contentment of an accomplishment, the dopamine moment after an orgasm, the fragile wrists of someone hoping to get it all right – all half’s. We were half there, wanting to be full, fulfilled. Waiting for a chance, half-awake. Half-alive.
Was timing everything or did it have absolutely nothing to do with the cosmic roundabout that kept reminding us how little we were how big we thought we were how quickly carelessly we passed through moments, immediately expecting the next one next year next life next person; the world expanded greatly and we weren’t prepared for it, we didn’t know where to be who to be who to be with. Time was extremely wrong and dreadfully slow for souls that were mad to be right mad to be real, drifters in spaces where there were no drifters existent any more but only exhausted dreamers falling asleep between someone else’s fancy book shelves with no truth written in them and nothing so mysteriously elastic about such seemingly beautiful and open Drayton gardens.
Moonlit nakedness, white socks up in the air, souls were revealed only after perfectly knowing and surrendering to both pain and pleasure; we endured pleasure consciously, pain in the nets of our comfort zones. She was probably in her small bed thinking of the last time I was inside of her, begging me to stay there forever with her thin wrists and uncertain eyes seeking a vain affirmation that no pain would follow, that pain would remain as transient as orgasms. In this instant, shaken to their very depths, the ecstatic feelings of all human beings were spreading out, bottled up inside waiting for a single event to change the course of light, lead them to painless regions that would turn out mediocre at the end and me, on the road again cutting those false images of a life because I was going somewhere better and she was still here with her wild action-less longings for an escape.