photo courtesy of thebuddhistblog.blogspot.com
No wonder girls dread their first menstrual flow. That moment, when blood, which marks a girl’s passage into adulthood, flows out of them. Somehow, I feel like that life is like that, a menstrual flow. No matter how prepared you are for that ritual to adulthood it will still surprise you, take you out of your comfort zone, make your cheeks flushed, makes you sweat profusely. In that one moment, you feel the last remaining ounce of sanity had been stolen from you; thrusting you into a vicious cycle of delusional episodes, topped with embarrassment which only aggravates your mental safe.
I should be proud of myself. I have a job A paying job. Or had one. I pay my bills, I do what a responsible adult with a job does. But I’m also desperate. The need for something physical, tangible is much stronger now. It still haunts me even in my slumber. As my hunger for the orgasmic grows stronger, my need to express myself has slowly ebbed away. I no longer want to write. I sometimes feel like writing is pretentious, ulcerous. People exploit it. I exploit it. I sometimes ask myself if I have become so jaded with life that the most powerful driving force in my life is starting to become ludicrous.
I’m planning to sop doing my slayer duty. Honestly, being a creature of the night does not really fit me. For one, I could not see well in the dark. Another is that the night does not promise anything. It is usually full of uncertainty, ambivalence, and superstitious eroticism. I’m not really a big believer of karma, causality and all that deep and intellectual stuff, but in the past couple of weeks, those things have been the only constant things in my life. That and contradiction. It seems that everything I say and/or do will just be contradicted after a couple of minutes. It’s not fickle-mindedness. I refuse to be labeled as such.