𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛’𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒, 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔
originally posted to substack — Dec 13, 2021
I thought I’d kill myself. I thought but I just spent $900 on this tattoo. How stupid it is to try to differentiate myself in any way, to exist in the ordinal excess of the body as an individual, somehow. Physicality perpetuates. The body repeats itself, it survives
The real is that which can be copied exactly*
But maybe I’m just lonely, even in taxonomy – presumed natural relationships
Being a woman without natural affection, existing in the beyond as a stone does
Maybe my inability to function socially is a contradiction of location as my only real instinct is to contemplate (careful boredom). An act of reflection, it takes an asymptotic line of sight to see the self as someone different, something other. In order to just not go crazy from all the insular attention. Like I could use some company here, I’m staring so hard I can’t see anyone else
Sloterdijk’s asymmetrical self-doubling of the contemplator, or I’m summoning my holy guardian angel qua Crowley, so of course it inevitably turns sexual b/c I’m bored in the wrong way (is boredom is a disruption of mind/body synchronicity, is suffering the separation of boredom and care)
– a virgin boy to scry my waters and clean for me, I’ll call him you
I tell myself my reticence towards social media is an asceticism. I refuse to take selfies so I don’t exist. I starve my identity. I’m sick but my breath on the mirror should be enough to tell me I’m alive – it’s dark. My lungs are graves emptied of ash. My lungs are the grave of the holy ghost, the holy ghost is the technique of fantasy that slowly forms a witness consciousness between you and me –
if I’m careful enough (in boredom). If I can distinguish this inner witness (from you), think so hard as to touch
Like when breath condenses to water – I can feel it
I lie awake all night and swallow 6 liters of myself, my throat sore and lubing with the spit I have to swallow b/c I can’t move. Slowly drowning beside you and I can’t ask for help – I don’t know which one of us is dreaming. I watch the alarm, hear it tick in and out the interval between where the LED alters and blinks into a new minute. It pushes apart the hours, makes them so much longer and I resent having to fill them with my body but it’s so still against yours, so frightened to move and wake you so I shrink inside it – something to regain control of the time. All the gaps I was sick in