Fucking and Drinking Through the Madness

I learned through my body and soul that it was necessary to sin, that I needed lust, that I had to strive for property and experience nausea and the depths of despair in order to learn not to resist them, in order to learn to love the world, and no longer compare it with some kind of desired imaginary vision of perfection, but to leave it as it is, to love it and be glad to belong to it.” Hermann Hesse

For some reason writing wasn’t easier when you were drunk, but living was and I wasn’t writing enough so I could drink and forget the trivial realities of most people like wanting someone to be there for us, more cash and pussy to release our anger at the world in, I only watched cars passing by my window in Ladbroke Grove how many people must have passed by and I still had nothing figured out since the first engine’s noise, at least a fucking month had passed since I moved in and I probably have had my heart broken at least twice and I had no job yet, spending my last penny on wine which was not even helping me write better, it only made me more horny and more aware of some mirages of times when you wouldn’t have to work if you’re brilliant and you wouldn’t have to screw if you’re not in love. 

There was no more pasta and Woody Allen on repeat, she must have been surfing somewhere in Southern California with whoever she chased instead of me and she is making him laugh the way I laughed with her, who cared about surviving this world at all without some stupid easy laughter preferably with a surfer? Waking up going to work cooking fucking drinking changing fucks and flats cities, countries and faces like everything was nothing because we didn’t intend to do any of it, because life just happened to us, what kind of nonsense – do we really let ourselves be led and happened on? Why don’t we stand up crash the ground heavily and solid with our feet and make sense of it all for ourselves?

And we began to dream aloud – about the sun and the french riviera, how little everything else meant texting dick pics, empty anticipations and the games we played to get laid and the amounts of online comments and likes, regular hotel parties and I still dreamt of pleasures who would dream of misery anyway? I dreamt of my balls being sucked by multiple girls at the same time right at this very now and I wasn’t thinking about any woman at all, not even Lea, perhaps she could be one of the girls sucking or not, it was a dream but also not really as we’ve all done it we’ve all been that man and we all wanted to be him again. And that was why I was never going to write a real story about love or “the meaning of life”, all I wanted was to get the dirt out of me and the dirty truth out of life and real life didn’t have just one storyline, everything was in and out through our eyes and we were confused and chased things and people and hoped for the best, broken and naïve and carrying on. Life was a process of carrying on, why should I spend time creating some false or half-true storylines when everything was waves and feelings, some mild events like getting fired and promoted, going to the beach getting dumped and so on they didn’t mean a thing because they were constant, coming and going and there was something more that was worth exploring and maybe I didn’t know yet what it was but I knew I wasn’t going to write some cliché novel I was going to figure real things out.

The jazz we never heard, the wine we never finished silly and too conscious of the next day and what it was definitely not bringing like any money at all, fresh fruits and dreams under some forever-shiny stars, the struggle we liked to say that was “real” and it was shared between the whole humanity was not exactly the same for everyone. I saw volcanoes and distant shores coming at me surrounding my little studio in impossible-to-escape-from scenarios and I stood there wanting to give up because I was tired and broke but I had to do something. I had to escape and I ran and I ran towards some other journey that would end up exactly the same but I went there anyway. And right then some massive and never-going-to disrupt gladness came rushing and raining over me that my heart and all of our hearts were beating and we’d be lucky to grow old with all our regrets of not being brave and happy enough we’d pour whiskey out with bitterness and alone wrinkled and still glad we were alive and I was just glad she was my best friend and my little slut and whether I shared her with others or not she’d be mine nevertheless and despite of it all she’d still be mine when I’m all wrinkled and alone I’d call her up and we’d both giggle at our stupid arguments about who’d fuck her next and when she’d trick me into cooking for me.

Starved and beaten walking those streets and paths in life I knew I’d never make it and I was brilliant and lame and deluded and hopelessly hopeful, walking and dreaming of climbing mountains instead, I detested this flatness and I wished to burn in fire and watch some cosmic fireworks and her masturbating there for me, my silly good girl, she could have had me if she trusted me but who would trust me now? Who would even like me? I was ashamed of not being good enough to be taken by existence by the throat and dragged to some real moments of clarity and passion and peace and destruction, everything now and simultaneously as strongly as I’d choke her while fucking her on the wall and I wanted both to happen at the same time me being taken by existence and her being taken by me hard and in any way today. But the sun was shinning bright in Notting Hill and we were vain and carried away.

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