The Id Monster
I'm feeling better and the turbines are spinning back up again. My energy's back and I still don't know what the heck to do with it. I work, I hang out, but they're sops that keep me going, it's no real way to live.
In Forbidden Planet the enemy, the horrible monster killing people, is just the amped-up subconsious of a scientist. It's angry, it's pentulant, but it's pure undiluted animal passion. I can feel that Id monster scraping away behind my eyeballs, hungry and it just wants to stretch its legs and run. So much contained energy, enough to workout at the gym for hours and not feel it. I feel like my head is butting up against those fence slats I've built up around myself, something's gotta give. It's like watching a steam boiler slowly rending as the pressure builds, wondering where the scream of steam will come out first. Times like these I doze and scan my memories of old loves, or rather passions, with love being a tricky proposition for me under the best of circumstances. Why do I hold back? Again we come back to it; is it fear? Self loathing? Shame? Feeling so self conscious for no reason that I deny myself from even giving pleasure let along receiving it? I've written myself out of my life. But I wonder: is all this contained energy just being pent up by *more* energy? That would explain why my mind fired off like a roman candle when I was sick: I simply couldn't restrain myself anymore.
I have to chase that feeling.
In Forbidden Planet the enemy, the horrible monster killing people, is just the amped-up subconsious of a scientist. It's angry, it's pentulant, but it's pure undiluted animal passion. I can feel that Id monster scraping away behind my eyeballs, hungry and it just wants to stretch its legs and run. So much contained energy, enough to workout at the gym for hours and not feel it. I feel like my head is butting up against those fence slats I've built up around myself, something's gotta give. It's like watching a steam boiler slowly rending as the pressure builds, wondering where the scream of steam will come out first. Times like these I doze and scan my memories of old loves, or rather passions, with love being a tricky proposition for me under the best of circumstances. Why do I hold back? Again we come back to it; is it fear? Self loathing? Shame? Feeling so self conscious for no reason that I deny myself from even giving pleasure let along receiving it? I've written myself out of my life. But I wonder: is all this contained energy just being pent up by *more* energy? That would explain why my mind fired off like a roman candle when I was sick: I simply couldn't restrain myself anymore.
I have to chase that feeling.
Click to view