Over and Over and Over. The never ending loop.
While I’ve been working steadily on a project that means the world to me creatively and a longtime dream coming to fruition, I haven’t been writing as much. Neither of the two have anything to do with the other as far as if they were getting in each other’s way. They’re two different sectors of my creativity.
The muse that infests my mind hasn’t been poking and prodding as she usually does as far as my writing goes. Which I guess the shortness in longevity at times, the disappearance for long periods of time and then the long stays are like relationships for me.
Those I’m shit at I guess. I get periods of back to back, years of nothing, shit to bat around until I’m bored or something wonderful that never makes it quite to the two year mark. At 37 I’ve never hit that.
Maybe I’m fucked up. Maybe I have no patience. Maybe I have shit taste. Maybe I like someone just as fucked up as me, (those are always the ones that lasted the longest), or maybe I’m just a twisted fuck that can’t make anything last no matter what I do.
I’m picky. While I don’t like loneliness I don’t hate it enough to hit dating apps or silly shit like that and end up in a one night stand with a bad fuck under my belt. I also have a certain ascetic I’m attracted to. We all have our preferences. And I like kink. It’s the one aspect in my life I don’t want control over, when it comes to sex. I want to be totally at the mercy of the other. In my life I’m always in control. Now finding someone to fill that void; not exactly easy and I’m too tired to bother to just go through fuckers to see if they have it in them. Usually it’s easy to read... then I’m in.
Now moving here, this weird and twisted world of creatures I’ve never mingled with and couldn’t even if I wanted to, (which I don’t), is irritating. As we’re in a lockdown. If my kind of human is in this vicinity, they’re underground just as I am.
So I’ve become one with loneliness. Not getting fucked. Not having a creative human as a partner, (yet another stipulation). Not having someone to travel to remote places with. No one to look over at and just smile. I’ve almost forgotten what that’s like.
I’m broken and fucked up. I’ve made terrible choices, some ending with positives in friends I’ve made along the way in different moves, life lessons learned, personal growth; but there are still the scars and hope has slowly bled out of the nearly dead organ that beats pathetically in my chest.
So what is this tormented disaster of the self to do? I know I’m not the only one sitting here thinking this shit. The old wait and the right one will come along?
I’m tired of that narrative. I’m sick of hearing it. I’m sick of it creeping in my mind like a bad trip. Self pity is useless, so like my muse, the one that comes flying in like a banshee with my writing, I’ll throw myself into the massive project that fills my mind with immense excitement, and love; a high that I can’t describe, better than any drug, and just carry on.
Loneliness it seems is my most prominent partner. It’s a terrible fuck and doesn’t have much for personality and ascetically it’s bland and ugly; but for now it’s what I’ve got. And hell, things could be worse. I could be stuck with a royal shit bag, so fuck it.
Here’s to loneliness, you silly, Bitch.