Refrain from chorus

Thoughts, honest thoughts, to get down in memoir form so I can go on to the next thing…

Most mornings I spend a bit of time imagining myself with make-believe characters, some who resemble real people, mainly objectified, for the object of auto/self-sexual satisfaction. Might be 15 minutes, might be up to an hour, but it’s how I build a wall between myself and others, how I’ve been able to deal with the real, messy world of uncertainty by keeping people slightly out of reach so I don’t have to deal with dealing with how our different realities don’t perfectly mesh.

I’ll be dead soon enough so admitting that I’d rather masturbate than have a physical relationship with others is not the worrisome thing it was when I was younger and had to pretend that I was interested in pursuing a physical relationship (i.e., cuddling, foreplay, sexual intercourse, etc.) through the act of flirting, the performance of making people feel important through someone else’s eyes.

I’ve reduced us all down to sets of states of energy in motion by now so that I can disappear into the crowd and leave you to figure out how to make yourselves feel whatever it is you want to feel without the need for social validation from me or anyone else.

You are as important to yourself as you can/want/will be.

I see myself reflected in society and it worries/sickens me that society would want to reflect me in any form, as boringly, normally twisted as I am.

Thank goodness, I’ve learned that what I say or do is only my coping mechanism in the moment that I’ve trained myself to make look like I have an overarching storyline lasting centuries into the future so that others will not question my true insanity, which finally paid off in that I have zero readers now.

I can concentrate on the writer’s studio I am creating for me, which is really for you, you who is the imaginary reflection of me, you who has been a set of memories I call Renee or Monica or Robyn or Brenda or Jennifer or Janeil or others whose names I still choose to leave anonymous because you may or may not know I would think enough about you to spend hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars on a backyard writer’s studio in your name.

It’s true, all of it.

I am a cad because I can reduce you down to an ideally objectified sexual object and at the same time see you with all your magnificent flaws which inspire me to create an artistic object called a writer’s studio.

It’s what I do, nothing more or less.

I’m tired of pretending.

Now I design and build.

Sometimes I read and write.

No matter which one, I’m always building walls, putting on masks because I no longer want to deal with reality.

I can afford that luxury now.

But I’ll still be courteous.

I know how to be polite, kind, how to put on airs that I care.

Because I don’t know if you do or don’t know that I don’t.

“Nuts.”

“Knots.”

I write.

You be whatever it is you want to be without me.

Of course, I am without you, some of you are already without me, already dead.

I’ll be dissolved soon enough, no longer the living, changing set of states of energy I/you know as me, days, weeks, years, decades from now.

Enough me talk.

Time to put self away.

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