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The void. The post-collegiate drift into sorrow to non-perfection. Flowing to the masses, crying out, am I without shame to my flock? Have they dispersed and allowed my darkness to consume me? To aid in the destruction of my longevity. And what do I say to my reflection; that bitch greets me with a reminder that I am not perfect; I am not what I set out to be.
I am a man. Envisioning myself in the world as a happy housewife; blonde hair and blue eyes that kisses her husband sweetly before descending the stairs in their 2.5 million dollar home. But I am not trans nor feel I am this woman. She is my happy place, my influence of such great nature and pleasantries that have not yet come upon me. I do not wish to be her, but I do envy her life. How did she get to be in a better position than I? How does she find her way into my brain to tell me what I should and shan’t do? She doesn’t control me; that seems a bit far fetched. She does make me think of a better life that is not my own. My motivation to get up in the morning and keep going in this sad planet that we call home. As we walk around senseless to no fault but our own. To make others feel better is too much of a burden that we don’t want to task ourselves with. We cheat, lie, steal and kill, both physically and emotionally. We talk our talks and laugh our laughs all the while wondering if death would be all bad. A soft drift to the other world wouldn’t do anyone any harm besides push people together for a short period of time due to your demise. People that haven’t spoken to you or your family in a while.
You sit there dreaming; sipping your iced beverage thinking, “Could this be done?”
“Is the end near to where I can grasp it and turn it all off?”
The constant nagging to do good and achieve things when the world wants to keep pushing you down; delighting in the fact you never get what you deserve; seducing you to go places that you didn’t even think you were capable of.
So who is this man in the picture? The one who is so pleasantly sleeping soundly after a good romp in the bedroom. The image is dark but I can tell you his personality wasn’t. Traveled 45 minutes to get to me through various combinations of public transportation because nobody has cars in the city; well sane people don’t. He was charming, sweet but obviously, he preferred nothing long term. I took that picture after I stood over him, wondering what had brought me to this place. To a place where I had pushed my morals aside and made a choice to throw myself away. Listen to that. I’m sure you’re thinking “what a bitch!” A sad sack of shit that is high up on her Catholic horse and isn’t in tune with the time and doesn’t take power in her body. First of all, I’m a man, and my pronouns are not her. Secondly, hookups are exciting! If you are smart and conscious about them. If you make sure you are safe and have an exit strategy if all things turn to shit and you have to fight or flight. I had a good time with him. He brought comfort to me. It was only momentarily though; this is not a shot at my lovemaking abilities in time; it’s fact. We get comfy but that’s it. He leaves and there isn’t more to the story; that’s it; that’s all folks.
“But Mr. Writer, he didn’t leave.”
You are very correct, reader, he didn’t, he stayed the night in some weird “let’s see where things go” type of un-discussed vibe. He should have left. I needed him to leave; to come over for one thing and leave. Instead, he formed a phony bond with me; talking about various things like we were a couple. Asking what I wanted to name my kids and so on and so forth. Keeping me awake at all hours of the night when I had a flight the next morning. Why didn’t I go to the front desk and say “excuse me, there’s some strange sweaty man in my bed” and have him hoisted out of there so fast that it would’ve been like I didn’t even invite him over?
I need a change of pace, maybe you need one too. I doubt we’ll find anything in ending our storyline short so I guess we just keep trucking on, keep filling up the pages in our novel until we are demanded for a sequel. Constant pain of being in the same rut and feeling you are stuck in your high school town not making anything of yourself. You know you better than this. But maybe you aren’t better, maybe you suck and should just settle for mediocre and a carefree life never fully connecting to anything or anyone. Keep filling the world up with shitty, unhinged people that feed the egotistical viewpoint that self-preservation is what matters at all cost regardless of how you go about it.
The void is dark. The void is nice. The void pushes the voices to make you roll the dice. If you run or if you cry, the void with rip you apart from the inside.
You can beat it though. It’s not this hole you can’t get out of. You only stay there if you let it fester, if you give up, and throw in the towel. This isn’t a pool party and I sure as hell didn’t bring my own towel. This is a low point for you; optimism is a bitch named Becca that you wanna slap in the face because she’s perfect; you hate her but you know that she’s always right and smells like that Bath and Body works fragrance you never got the name of. Don’t be like Becca. Let her inspire you to not stew in a low place. Let her motivate you to push threw it and move on so you’ll never have to talk to run into her out on their power run ever again. Don’t ignore the void or pretend it’s not there. Address it but don’t let it take hold of you. Ask for help if you need to. Love you.