racines d'une caractere
One and only one adult in my early life, paid me an unflinchingly high level of attention. This gave me the notion that I was worthy of such attention, and made me incredibly angry at those who lacked the inclination, skill, and serenity to look upon me with a curiosity so vast as to appear limitless. That would be everyone else, at least for a very long time.
I like to say to the unconsolably heartbroken: Of course (s)he was fabulous and irreplacable. They all are.
I experience a kind of despair akin to heartbreak, looking in the mirror. A voice says: you've done fuck all with the fabulosity that he recognised in you. Strictly speaking, this is incorrect. Much of what I've done, and continue to do, would strike me as admirable in anyone else. I do not expect of them, what I expect of myself.
If I see the fantasy of my greatness, as a Lover who has moved on when I still wanted more, then it makes sense for me to say to the mirror: Of course you are fabulous and unique. So is everyone else.
A voice, seven years old, mischievous, and superior, smirks: not everyone.
My thirtymrph year old self responds: they would be, if someone knew how to love them in just the right way. This idea is at the core of my weltanschauung. My political vision: love the people in just the right way, and they become human. My obsession with sex and women, might be thought to boil down to: who can unlock my dormant fabulosity? To the obvious and facil response: only I can, I look at the mirror and think: that guy? Come off it.
That guy is unimpressive, next to what his adoring grandfather saw in him. And I can tell he's not hot for me, which rules out the other pathway I understand to being seen, understood, and celebrated.
My best understanding of why I rarely feel strong enough to pursue the sex I want, why that pursuit requires strength: Can't sell a product you don't believe in. A dear friend of mine finds it odd that I see myself as a product to sell to women.
If I've communicated what I wish to with this post, that should be far clearer now.
I like to say to the unconsolably heartbroken: Of course (s)he was fabulous and irreplacable. They all are.
I experience a kind of despair akin to heartbreak, looking in the mirror. A voice says: you've done fuck all with the fabulosity that he recognised in you. Strictly speaking, this is incorrect. Much of what I've done, and continue to do, would strike me as admirable in anyone else. I do not expect of them, what I expect of myself.
If I see the fantasy of my greatness, as a Lover who has moved on when I still wanted more, then it makes sense for me to say to the mirror: Of course you are fabulous and unique. So is everyone else.
A voice, seven years old, mischievous, and superior, smirks: not everyone.
My thirtymrph year old self responds: they would be, if someone knew how to love them in just the right way. This idea is at the core of my weltanschauung. My political vision: love the people in just the right way, and they become human. My obsession with sex and women, might be thought to boil down to: who can unlock my dormant fabulosity? To the obvious and facil response: only I can, I look at the mirror and think: that guy? Come off it.
That guy is unimpressive, next to what his adoring grandfather saw in him. And I can tell he's not hot for me, which rules out the other pathway I understand to being seen, understood, and celebrated.
My best understanding of why I rarely feel strong enough to pursue the sex I want, why that pursuit requires strength: Can't sell a product you don't believe in. A dear friend of mine finds it odd that I see myself as a product to sell to women.
If I've communicated what I wish to with this post, that should be far clearer now.