(no subject)
For me, the usual clarity and spruceness of this season is shot through with the heat of mammals, like the way claustrophobia probably feels, or maybe a little like flu. I know how to love accordingly, but as a singularity, humanity grabs me by the throat.
Each individual who speaks to me, each pair of eyes that gazes in my direction... sometimes, I feel nauseous.
I'm sweating a universal horror. I faint as I feel myself feeling them.
There are tortures of the mind just as there are those of the body and of desire. And there is in those agonies, as in the others, a certain pleasure.
I'm sorry that it was all we had. That sort of thing doesn't last, and yet it was made of the stuff that typically does.
Maybe I'm just exhausted or drunk, but this heat feels like sleep, too. Sleep is like the music of the will, a slow anagram of monotony. For much of the life that I've led, my closest relationships were achieved on a level of honest passivity, or came about "naturally". Flaccid continuity, yes.
A steady analysis of sensations. Half-feelings. Quasi-expressions that cost me everything, as if I only noticed the colors of the stuff that makes up my past.
I loved with my regard and not with my imagination. That's what happened.