The more I stopped feeling, the less I started to care, my ability to write passed so too. The fantasies and hopes and dreams became null and void and with that the ability to express myself. I saw no need. There was nothing that I wished for, the need to prove myself gone, the reflection of myself impertinent. I became in a way so aware of my own mortality that I wished for it. Constantly. There was no phase II or III, no I only sought death. And it wasn’t either the frivolous childhood entertainment most have undoubtedly engaged in. Elaborating on how and where, and what friends and family would think. No, it was simply the wishing of nonexistence. The notion was so fundamental and yet without substance that it was utterly weightless, existing in a vacuum devoid of time and space.
How I wonder (and perhaps you do too)? After all I haven’t ever experienced this acute emptiness as I do now. Let me explain it in this way. Perhaps too explicitly but there is no other way I believe. I was always a very sexual person. I derived pleasure and didn’t see much wrong with this instant gratification. I sought it wherever I could. And reveled in the attention. And as membrane rubbed with membrane, so did my soul. I coupled with anyone that my heart and mind fancied. Playing these games for my own indulgence. It was all a spectacle really, and I caroused in it. Clothes, perfumes, books, films, antiques…all with attention to the most minute detail.
You see it was all for show, much needed to fill the gap that years of self-loathing had created. In fact in my own way I became the narcissist I held such absolute fascination for. But then the winter came…
A long, hard, bitter and barren time. Year passed into another, and eventually the tears dried up, and so did the desires. Until one day… I felt nothing. I remember I tried to please myself. I tried so frantically, but although my body responded the ultimate emotion never appeared. I tried a few more times, invariably in the evening when alone. The moment one would seek to pleasure oneself as a reward for passing yet another insignificant day. But the result was always the same. Naught. Eventually I understood that I passed into a being without pleasure or pain.
As I write these words, yet alone, I conjure up memories of another lifetime. Those delightful intercourses…of various kind. Will they ever reappear? Will Spring finally commence?