(Blaine Transue)
I am up late, trying to get a head start on the future. It will start quite early tomorrow, long before the sun arrives. It has probably already begun in NYC. Tuesday March 25th is off to a nervous start in Brooklyn.
I am excited about my triumphant return to Manhattan. There is so much that I will wish to do there. The week will go by too quickly, I know that. I am saddened by the immediate future's passing, though only mildly.
I am going to think my way into a new malady, an anxiety about what does not lie ahead - not what might happen - instead, a concern for all of the things that will not ever happen, destiny depression with a strong sense of confused loss and longing. Planned abandonment. The more unlikely the occurrence the darker the psychic chasm to fall into, the less likelihood of escape.
Addictive, habitual, occurrence starvation. Causal collapse.
Ah, that is too much for tonight's rambling. I don't have the heart to pursue it. I should leave the post writing for the morning, and I know this, but I am antsy.
My life is changing, I can not sleep.
I am losing the last person that I fell in love with. It has been happening for years, but the sense that the ground is moving under me now is enormous. I question whether I will ever have the energy to do it all over again.
I hope not.
What condition would that be: future romance apathy, love exhaustion. I would become deeply depressed about my inability to love anybody in the distant future but I just don't care.
I suffer pre-selfishness woes, crippled by prospective self-interest, incapable of masturbation as my love object is yet pre-formed. I become visibly agitated at lumps of play-doh that happen to be shaped like a woman's breasts, or ass crack, but can never achieve satisfaction in unreleased fantasy.
Very tantric, that.
I can joke about it. It shows my strength.
I'd like to say that, "I will miss her" but it doesn't look like she's going anywhere. We have a child together, so, you know, she'll be around.
That should prove to be quite fun, all I'll need now is mild amnesia, the condition commonly known as romance.
Small town.
Miniature, even.
The golf course here actually is a miniature golf course.
Maybe I should develop an immobilizing fear of small towns.
Though, hadn't I just recovered from that.
.
