Emotion vs. reason: The old dichotomy

"i live in a world where i can turn the tears on and off like a spluttering tap. the performance of emotions is so irresistible to me; the abstract, beautiful world of piercing tragedy and drunk euphoria is the one i can at least control", is what he said to me when we said goodbye. i asked him to just put his arms around me and pretend i was that figure, that ever-elusive figure of what he was hopelessly yearning for. make me a fiction, i dont care. but he couldnt. i maybe should be thankful for that.

"you just brush out words like theyre a piece of art you're trying to perfect and beautify, manipulating it hitchcock-style right down to the last detail. you don't even think of the literal consequences of what you're saying, do you? i am just one of your fucking easels". i tried to cry, but it felt too strange, all this rose de-wittbuttaker-style emotion i had so romantically dreamt i had been storing just wouldnt explode into the dramatic waterfall of emotion i had hoped for. where was the pathetic, broken mess i had thought/was hoping i was?

it was supposed to be an enormous, electric, emotional explosion. instead, i felt as inert as a noble gas, and as dormant as i had before.

silence now. shit, what shall i say to him now. is this even real?

getting a bit bored now as well. what about that girl i pulled last week, she seemed fun. no shane, she was fun AND fucked up. why dont you just go for someone who is normal this time. all these visionaries, poets, painters.......the world becomes a solipsistic paradise, experienced alone and never resolved because you are always contriving these emotions in other people. we just stare longingly, lovingly at each other in bed, and i dream i am satine, and you are christian, and tomorrow i will die, but you will love me forever. more propaganda from my lysosomic self. shane, stop talking shit.

"shaney, baby, you are my lolita", there was a hint of the beginnings of the perfect tear forming in his right eye when he then whispered, "light of my life, fire of my loins and all that jazz".

"thanks a-fucking-lot, i am your paedophilic, perverted fantasy. he was messed up jesse, you know that dont you. nabakov may have managed to make it all aesthetically beautiful and romantic but that's all he was, crazy and intoxicated with what he wanted to be real. when the real was really a sad old man who couldnt let go of what was basically a pathetic teenage crush". i turned round to storm off, shame i wasnt in a room where i could slam the door, shattering its hinges, or maybe if i could only find some china to throw or something, shit it i'm just going to have to flounce out. but not before i got out that line i had been wanting to say to someone for so long. "and that's typical of you as well. all you need is someone to be your emotional WANK. lolita?! yes, you wanted me as just some untouched, malleable piece of clay you could just perfect to your fucking liking didnt you!".

i've got to stop swearing i then started thinking as i strode down the road, assertively banging my head to whatever shit i could get on to my discman. men want delicate fragile, feather like beauties that they can assert their own sense of importance and masculinity with. men love those girls because they really really make them feel like men. instead, i just ended up being the man in my relationships. penis envy? yeh right. but i wasnt that strong, i was delicate and vulnerable, too much so.

so that was jess. dearest jess. beginning to sound a bit like a hymn or prayer now and he wasnt really that special so i'll just stop right here. we had fun though right? yeh of course we did. time to get away now i think. somewhere i'll find my prince or princess charming. but why this urge to merge? why can't a person just be satisfied with their own self, and not feel the need to get that coveted validation of some other shcmuck. headfuck, i mockingly teased myself. i like to move my baggage around from house to house, hide it around different corners, find new pretty ways to store it, furnish the place.. make it look real good. but the shit is all still there taking up the room. i need to get those fit removal men in i think. not enough time to think all these thoughts that are drowning my head.

got to stop this fucking emotional masturbation. tonight, matthew, i am going to be a queen. just like madonna, i'm going to take no prisoners. victim? me? how easy is it to play the victim? i thought. just relinquish all the responsibility for your every decision because of your victim status. youre free to do whatever the fuck you want. why let this go? because it's negating my happiness and myself as a person maybe? so i never feel complete, just feel stationary, reworking the same old patterns, different faces, same scenarios. never again.

victor, from now on.