Looking back over a tattered hide.
The past few months have been marred in my mind by the constant loss of my memory and emotional stresses. This school year allowed to me some new friends, but its end will cost me old ones. The transition into the life of an adult is progressing ever forward much like a tree growing upward cannot be halted. Lessons are learned and new pains endured with new discoveries as to the depth of ones character shows. However I fear I may come to some disappointment, with how shallow my character really is.
In the last few days I have taken a new opinion of suffering and anguish and have meshed it betwixed the view I have always kept on the matter. There are many points to which I can make but I shall keep many to my private thoughts and words, save a few. We all suffer, it is what we suffer for that makes the biggest difference when we look back on the battle we fought. If we suffered for money and fame and worried our hair gray over bills and payments and laws then so be it. I refuse to fall to that if I can, and will suffer for the sake of my pride and my burning heart. If I die with a hammer in my hand, or kneeling after a hard fought contest I consider that death in mid prayer.
Debts and favors are more real to me now than ever. I have seen large debts go unpaid and I have seen small debts be paid in bushels of bushels to which the debt holder could not bear the guilt. It dawned on me the malady of my kindness. I give only because I know that I will eventually receive or at least hope to. If nothing else, when one gives often to another without asking for just payment it becomes exceedingly more difficult for the gifted to ask of favors when it comes to serious events. I have given so that when others think in a time of need they wouldn't ask of me, for my kindness to them has been as deep as the well of my wallet and efforts. This is not the way.
I should give with the knowledge that I won't accept such payment and if the one to whom I give does not appreciate it, then so be it. My gifts are just that, gifts and should remain in that way so long as I live. No debts, no expected favors, no bribary and no giving in expectation.
The heart beats in every man and woman the same, yet immensely unique to each. Fathoming its calling and straining in my chest has provoked quite a bit. The smokiing of harsh herbs and the lack of straining my heart to keep it strong has made it beat crudely and painfully sometimes, making it leap and flutter more often than it had in my younger days. However the metaphoric strength of my heart has wained much the same. It has fallen in the path of clear judgement more than once and has led me to such indeciiveness that I can scarcely say I have at all thought on what I do. I cannot fully give my heart to a woman, so long as I know that one out there may love me more sincerely and with less motives. Likewise I cannot love a woman knowing that someone out there could love her all the more without my greedy and perverse motives. This inner cancer upon my love and affection has been quite painful and has made its mark often enough upon my flesh as I am motivated to manifest it with smoldering embers and glittering steel.
I so wish that it were possible to be the hungry wolf of my ladies hidden and dark passions, whilst she plays the faun of my hunt and quarry for my savage untamed heart. But it has yet to be so, and I fear that it shall not come to pass before the strong concentrated nectar of my savage unmanaged lust is dried up and spent on the worries of petty relationships and the pitiless struggle to make it in the world.
The mystery of sexuality I fear is losing its foreign and wild appeal, and my chasteness to this point will shortly come to blows with my pride. When a woman is not being satisfied by the man she desires because he wishes to remain chast it easily becomes an issue of confidence which then easily becomes a matter of pride. The urgings of others to give away my last vistage of good and morality is weighing heavy as the oxen's yoke and I scarce can bear it. The sheer pressure of it upon my frame drags me down and down and slows me, so that I cannot continue to tread the paths. If I could give it to no one and cast that badge of mine into an ocean or a deep cavern or forest hollow I would be all the more merry of it.
Nothing is slicking my lust, for the manipulation of ones own desire in private is a shameful thing to my mind and I wish not to commit it. To share my dark fascinations and press my lust onto a woman is to leave yourself open to ridicule as well as unsatisfaction and worse attachment. I wish to be the punisher and the evil villian of a ladies fantasies, and from time to time be the captivated hero of a teasing mistress of lust. My masochistic ways are very small in the bedroom and mostly manifest as a way of purifying the many ills and sins of my soul. If I were to ask a friend to lash me with a whip it would be because I know I deserve to suffer for being a bad person and a poor example of a human being, not for the gratification it brings to my selfish and yearning peices of anatomy.
So I will end this note with only contemplation in mind, and hope that those who read might understand. The vail that seperates me from my dreams is changing and is either becoming thicker or that my dreams so long veiled have begun to stagnate and be filled with my worries and my humdrum life. Much like the water of a stream unmoved fills with the soil and the pollutants around it, thus are my dreams becoming filled with employment woes and fear of the future. I wish just to puncture thru it all sometimes with a knife of my own construction and left flow the bursting ocean of my dreams and feel them all anew and see the forest and know the sun as it glints upon my leather shod frame, smell the fires of the hearth and the heating steel. Hear the loud drumming and the playing of the fife, touch the dew of the clover and touch the bare skin of another and feel the downy of their flesh perk and stand like prairy grass.
In short somebody aughta fuckin hit me with their goddamn car......
In the last few days I have taken a new opinion of suffering and anguish and have meshed it betwixed the view I have always kept on the matter. There are many points to which I can make but I shall keep many to my private thoughts and words, save a few. We all suffer, it is what we suffer for that makes the biggest difference when we look back on the battle we fought. If we suffered for money and fame and worried our hair gray over bills and payments and laws then so be it. I refuse to fall to that if I can, and will suffer for the sake of my pride and my burning heart. If I die with a hammer in my hand, or kneeling after a hard fought contest I consider that death in mid prayer.
Debts and favors are more real to me now than ever. I have seen large debts go unpaid and I have seen small debts be paid in bushels of bushels to which the debt holder could not bear the guilt. It dawned on me the malady of my kindness. I give only because I know that I will eventually receive or at least hope to. If nothing else, when one gives often to another without asking for just payment it becomes exceedingly more difficult for the gifted to ask of favors when it comes to serious events. I have given so that when others think in a time of need they wouldn't ask of me, for my kindness to them has been as deep as the well of my wallet and efforts. This is not the way.
I should give with the knowledge that I won't accept such payment and if the one to whom I give does not appreciate it, then so be it. My gifts are just that, gifts and should remain in that way so long as I live. No debts, no expected favors, no bribary and no giving in expectation.
The heart beats in every man and woman the same, yet immensely unique to each. Fathoming its calling and straining in my chest has provoked quite a bit. The smokiing of harsh herbs and the lack of straining my heart to keep it strong has made it beat crudely and painfully sometimes, making it leap and flutter more often than it had in my younger days. However the metaphoric strength of my heart has wained much the same. It has fallen in the path of clear judgement more than once and has led me to such indeciiveness that I can scarcely say I have at all thought on what I do. I cannot fully give my heart to a woman, so long as I know that one out there may love me more sincerely and with less motives. Likewise I cannot love a woman knowing that someone out there could love her all the more without my greedy and perverse motives. This inner cancer upon my love and affection has been quite painful and has made its mark often enough upon my flesh as I am motivated to manifest it with smoldering embers and glittering steel.
I so wish that it were possible to be the hungry wolf of my ladies hidden and dark passions, whilst she plays the faun of my hunt and quarry for my savage untamed heart. But it has yet to be so, and I fear that it shall not come to pass before the strong concentrated nectar of my savage unmanaged lust is dried up and spent on the worries of petty relationships and the pitiless struggle to make it in the world.
The mystery of sexuality I fear is losing its foreign and wild appeal, and my chasteness to this point will shortly come to blows with my pride. When a woman is not being satisfied by the man she desires because he wishes to remain chast it easily becomes an issue of confidence which then easily becomes a matter of pride. The urgings of others to give away my last vistage of good and morality is weighing heavy as the oxen's yoke and I scarce can bear it. The sheer pressure of it upon my frame drags me down and down and slows me, so that I cannot continue to tread the paths. If I could give it to no one and cast that badge of mine into an ocean or a deep cavern or forest hollow I would be all the more merry of it.
Nothing is slicking my lust, for the manipulation of ones own desire in private is a shameful thing to my mind and I wish not to commit it. To share my dark fascinations and press my lust onto a woman is to leave yourself open to ridicule as well as unsatisfaction and worse attachment. I wish to be the punisher and the evil villian of a ladies fantasies, and from time to time be the captivated hero of a teasing mistress of lust. My masochistic ways are very small in the bedroom and mostly manifest as a way of purifying the many ills and sins of my soul. If I were to ask a friend to lash me with a whip it would be because I know I deserve to suffer for being a bad person and a poor example of a human being, not for the gratification it brings to my selfish and yearning peices of anatomy.
So I will end this note with only contemplation in mind, and hope that those who read might understand. The vail that seperates me from my dreams is changing and is either becoming thicker or that my dreams so long veiled have begun to stagnate and be filled with my worries and my humdrum life. Much like the water of a stream unmoved fills with the soil and the pollutants around it, thus are my dreams becoming filled with employment woes and fear of the future. I wish just to puncture thru it all sometimes with a knife of my own construction and left flow the bursting ocean of my dreams and feel them all anew and see the forest and know the sun as it glints upon my leather shod frame, smell the fires of the hearth and the heating steel. Hear the loud drumming and the playing of the fife, touch the dew of the clover and touch the bare skin of another and feel the downy of their flesh perk and stand like prairy grass.
In short somebody aughta fuckin hit me with their goddamn car......