want

i come from a family of theravada buddhist zealots. here's my personal breakdown of the four noble truths:

1. you are going to suffer. really, really suffer.
2. you suffer because you want.
3. you can stop suffering.
4. but it's going to be really fucking hard.

now that is faith. i'm talking george michael faith.

can we get back to want? NBM told me the other day that i hardly ever express want to him. rarely do i say, "i want..." i found this difficult to believe, but he is pretty good about paying attention to what i say, so i'll believe him. he did, however, say that, in writing, i use the word "want" all the time. it's all about want. i want i want i want.

i want you in the worst fucking way

and i come from a family of theravada buddhist zealots. i already know that it is this very want that is making me crazy. that makes me so persistently unsettled, so perpetually miserable.

so i will try.

i will try to rid myself of my unreasonable attachment to my dog, become asexual, never slowly roll a piece of half-melted vahlrona chocolate 'round my mouth again, burn my ipod! i will forsake my body and my intellect. anything to make this stop.

quietly

i told him it wasn't shakespeare, and he left unceremoniously. no suicides, no proclamations of love, no poison, all pride. still it took him more than an hour to pack his things: a toothbrush, 2 shirts, 4 dvds, a stick of deodorant and a tupperware container. we wikipedia-ed for the last time and laughed at paintings on the museum of bad art website. i wrote on his hand in permanent marker and reminded myself again and again that i had cried every time we were together over the last 2 weeks. he asked me who would he talk to, who would care about him. i wondered if i'd end up lying in bed every day of every weekend for the next 2 months.

in february i wrote the only fragment of a poem that he may have ever inspired in me. this compared to countless numbers of written ravings about GD, RS, WBE, even TD. but i have such a vivid recollection of the night i wrote it. such a vivid memory of HIM.

you could sing me to sleep without singing a note
with the lull of your voice and the burn of your throat