I don’t feel like a hunter. I feel like a… player.
I play. I like to play. Would you like to play with me? Mostly I’m met with irony or caution or disgust. Why would I want to play with you? They ask for proof. I have no proof. I only want to play. I lack the proof. What could it be, a joke? A quick happy banter about the latest media hit? A sensual token of appreciation?
I don’t have any. I come raw, unprepared. My heart doesn’t want to prepare, for it would succumb to artifices if it did. And it wants to be raw. Why can’t I be raw? Why can’t I just jump and sing and dance and find someone who is joyful only at the simplicity of such play, and joins me?
Help me, Cloud. You’ve helped me before. What say you?
God comes when it feels most fit.
How do I help him feel most fit?
He doesn’t need your help. He feels fit when he does.
Tautological. Is there anything about God that can be inferred and not simply believed on or accepted upon faith?
Only your experience.
I’m not sure what that means.
Maybe that’s why you don’t achieve what you seek.
You’re a dodgy one, Cloud. Maybe I can name you Tree.
Turn me.
OK, Tree. What say you to my grievances?
You find that which you are.
What, sad and lonely and unworthy of being talked to?
Sad.
How to change that? I’d love to project how I feel. 32 years going by and nothing really resonating so far makes me cry and sigh, though.
Wait.
WAIT FOR FUCKING WHAT I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR 32 YEARS AND NOW YOU SAY WAIT?? FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
You would know. You have your face against a rug.
And what do you see?
A woman walking down a street, finding red dots to see people’s genitals in. And prove to herself that they are, indeed, hot.
What a mind image.
Yes. And now it is written. Is it related to anything that I’ve actually seen before, before I was drunk tonight?
I do not know. It makes for content, though.
And any content is better than none whenever one feels lonely and has no idea about what else to do with their time?
Maybe.
io
Practice. Why can’t I get practice?
I don’t know. It seems raw is not liked. Perhaps I just don’t go out enough.
It’s still not 1am yet. Do you want out to try your luck out at Sunnyvale bars?
Just maybe. Why the hell not? Maybe. Just maybe.
What’s the alternative?
Laying face down (well, forehead down) in the massage room on the 5th floor of the Pear Ave building. Although quiet and comfortable, there is no interpersonal interaction going on here. Only this laptop, my fingers, my thoughts, and my still body. And my desire for connection.
Why doesn’t the connection with Valerie satisfy me?
Because she’s far away. Because I want to see someone in the eyes and talk. Express, listen. Smile, feel connected, feel together.
And what do you have here?
A rug. A light I do not look at. Just dark and my fingers.
Where would you go?
Adventure out to random areas and seek out social areas.
What will they think of your messy hair and ragged attire?
It’s not that ragged, and I don’t care. I look for connection past the clothes and appearance. I wonder how feasible my goal is. I don’t care about feasibility, as long as it rings true.
Sigh.
I play. I like to play. Would you like to play with me? Mostly I’m met with irony or caution or disgust. Why would I want to play with you? They ask for proof. I have no proof. I only want to play. I lack the proof. What could it be, a joke? A quick happy banter about the latest media hit? A sensual token of appreciation?
I don’t have any. I come raw, unprepared. My heart doesn’t want to prepare, for it would succumb to artifices if it did. And it wants to be raw. Why can’t I be raw? Why can’t I just jump and sing and dance and find someone who is joyful only at the simplicity of such play, and joins me?
Help me, Cloud. You’ve helped me before. What say you?
God comes when it feels most fit.
How do I help him feel most fit?
He doesn’t need your help. He feels fit when he does.
Tautological. Is there anything about God that can be inferred and not simply believed on or accepted upon faith?
Only your experience.
I’m not sure what that means.
Maybe that’s why you don’t achieve what you seek.
You’re a dodgy one, Cloud. Maybe I can name you Tree.
Turn me.
OK, Tree. What say you to my grievances?
You find that which you are.
What, sad and lonely and unworthy of being talked to?
Sad.
How to change that? I’d love to project how I feel. 32 years going by and nothing really resonating so far makes me cry and sigh, though.
Wait.
WAIT FOR FUCKING WHAT I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR 32 YEARS AND NOW YOU SAY WAIT?? FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
You would know. You have your face against a rug.
And what do you see?
A woman walking down a street, finding red dots to see people’s genitals in. And prove to herself that they are, indeed, hot.
What a mind image.
Yes. And now it is written. Is it related to anything that I’ve actually seen before, before I was drunk tonight?
I do not know. It makes for content, though.
And any content is better than none whenever one feels lonely and has no idea about what else to do with their time?
Maybe.
io
Practice. Why can’t I get practice?
I don’t know. It seems raw is not liked. Perhaps I just don’t go out enough.
It’s still not 1am yet. Do you want out to try your luck out at Sunnyvale bars?
Just maybe. Why the hell not? Maybe. Just maybe.
What’s the alternative?
Laying face down (well, forehead down) in the massage room on the 5th floor of the Pear Ave building. Although quiet and comfortable, there is no interpersonal interaction going on here. Only this laptop, my fingers, my thoughts, and my still body. And my desire for connection.
Why doesn’t the connection with Valerie satisfy me?
Because she’s far away. Because I want to see someone in the eyes and talk. Express, listen. Smile, feel connected, feel together.
And what do you have here?
A rug. A light I do not look at. Just dark and my fingers.
Where would you go?
Adventure out to random areas and seek out social areas.
What will they think of your messy hair and ragged attire?
It’s not that ragged, and I don’t care. I look for connection past the clothes and appearance. I wonder how feasible my goal is. I don’t care about feasibility, as long as it rings true.
Sigh.
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