I hate to complain. But I am very good at it. I want to live in an ideal world and no world is ideal. I want to close my eyes and take care of myself. But I don’t take care of myself. I expect care from the world when I don’t offer it to myself.
It is strange to want to make yourself so agreeable to others. I used to think that meant taking a piece of them through association and grafting it onto yourself. Making yourself agreeable so that you can. A monstrous thing on its own. Now I know it is giving away too much, cutting off your limbs piece by piece, and holding them out to anyone who comes close.
Taking your time. It’s hard to feel what I want to feel with others when I’m doing the opposite of taking time. Rushing through conversation. All developments inevitably become stalled. I don’t want anything else (or anyone) to be in my head when I’m having sex. Maybe I’ll go into the park and sleep until visited by rain.