Making a turn. I can still hear their clacking teeth. Sleep is remedy, sleep is protest. At times all I want is to swim in our independence, in the non-resolution of a failed professional life. They say time passes but I'm still. We know we'll keep on inventing and coming up with new desires. Those people are so boring. Rejections. The continuous iteration of I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. Beginning to get stressed about the holidays. The last month is always a slippery slope. There is no difference between 8 am and 4pm.
We're walking through a wet corridor that used to be a canal. Our imagination is taking twists and turns, we're seeing stuff across time, across brain space. I feel you inside me and it's normal, it's the everyday. In these circumstances, there is no more difference between a lover and a friend. We can fuck whoever, it doesn't change a thing. The physicality finally won over the intellectual dimension of self but hey It's been a long battle so the sex feels very deserving. We worked hard to get here. We worked hard for this to get this casual. I was listening to a podcast the other day and it talked about how habits are hard, and they need a lot of work. This one needed the most, the habit of treating our bodies like something you can reserve, something you can control. Every day I passed by strangers on the street I wanted to kiss with, or rub against. Bodies are so beautiful and tasty. One might say we live in more a dog world now, we all lick and smell each other constantly. But it's somewhat late for this. Disease is so wide spread and there is so little water that our death feels undeniably close. Like, around the corner type of close. In these circumstances it was easy to change habits, to relinquish control. Some argue we can still be proud, that we've made it even though we're dying out. Some other species might tell a tale of humans who loved each other at the end. We always loved those stories with a happy ending most. Bleh it's bitter but I'm actually enjoying this. It's all a big, wet thrust. It can get delirious, like in the tunnel, when even our minds merged and I left feeling like the brother, not the sister. I remember before feeling like all the people deemed insane were actually the sane ones, like the pretending was a cage that led us to a sad life of cancelation of our creative potential. To be insane meant that you're simply able to communicate on many more levels than the established ones. Plus there was a whole lot of segregation around who could speak in the first place. Anyway, back to the canal. It was my first time there and I heard a lot about this place. I head we managed to make a deal with the sea cows about staying in some of the canals for extended periods of time in order for our bodies to get enough moisture. The world up there got so dry and we were also missing out on lubrication and so canals had it all. But we lost them quite some time ago. It was the most femininity entrapped in a delicate male body. It was delicious and she was so quiet that it made me quiet too. We just looked at each other for most part. We went way back, knowing each other from afar, but then, what was that feeling, it wa familiarity that brought us together again. There we were, in the canal, our act enabled by the sea cow x human agreement. It felt like just the right time and place.
A friend from Athens visits this week and I love asking him questions and finding out stories from his life. They are engaging and new, filled with turns and surprises. But then comes a point when he says 'Well, enough about me!' and faces me with questioning eyes. I struggle articulating my being. I keep on mentioning the wrong order of things, especially their degree of importance. I keep on stumbling upon words and I sound boring to myself. I think often I have the issue that I start talking reality when I actually want to talk dreams. I live a lot through dreams and with dreams, living in the possibility of change. How do I navigate that narration if what the question feels more like 'recount the last 12 months please.' I don't think so much about the past.