Tuesday, October 25, 2016

All the Hurt in the First Place

I am trying to make sense of the hurt and of the insistence on hurting myself, the latter as perhaps a form of penance, but more likely revenge against the one perceived as having started all the hurt in the first place. Write what you would rather not look at? One wakes up sore and confused on the couch, their dreams a blur of aesthetic directives - you should listen to classical music vs. I'd rather listen to new age music - and interior rooms to which one is confined by choice. Yet so often the one we would hurt no longer cares - has long since forgotten - was hurt themselves - received in advance what passed for our consent - or whatever - and so where are we then in the Freudian mythology? I can't make sense of my body anymore, especially its application to intimacy, or am I just now seeing the problem? Jesus makes sense, as always, especially through the lens of A Course in Miracles, which naturally we can't let go of fast enough. When we arrived home I dumped the last of the bad coffee on the driveway and went inside to read, later slumping on the couch like a troll whose bridge was being repaired and had no other place to go. Is it true that we are going to die? Would I let her kiss me - would I let her do more - or only share a cup of tea? Morning comes and brings with it the same old script, the same old story, the same old song and agitprop. Someone fiddles, someone else burns. Meanwhile, between smoke and portamenti, this. This this.

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