A good portion of the literary works has been completed after the coitus - I recall lucidly I've read a sentence like this on some elusive website. I figure, maybe for those authors, the time they've obtained their last biological satisfaction, is the time they look into the spiritual one. Since my circumstance has defined me in such a way that love is not permissible and sexual desire obscene, nothing has changed in me other than the insidious sexism originating from my begrudging acknowledgement that there is, after all, something I dare not transcend.
However, apart from the nobility of the post-coital inspiration the famous authors enjoy, I too have the humility of my post-masturbatory sadness that is, revealingly exclusive to the participation of myself - the very sweetness and the privacy I indulge, the sense of expatriate, the vague anxiety of being inconspicuous, all enjoyed by my automatic corpse, and the indifferent mind, where, a rather metaphysical image of trillions of naked young women and men generating noise and offspring throughout the time frame of centuries, and then dying unknowingly that the very excitement they feel, is nothing inconsistent from the helplessness they suffer. And among them, many sitting on their mom's lap are only to be seated, many hailed for their commonness are only to be common, and after an incursion into life, an occasion epileptic entropy of the universe, so many return foolishly into the faith consisting of nothing but a cluster of hadrons' belief.
In the disarray of my feelings, often irrelevant memories, tanglesome conjectures appear and try to be included as something external, I've always politely refused them because they are tedious, even the vicissitude they represent is tedious. Tedium, withdrawal, intellectual shyness, and the disdain that eventually comes from all these, seem to me like the only ray of light in someone's dark, perfect hibernation, with the purpose of disturbing the original unchangingness of his anesthesia. For a time I found myself amidst the ruins of an indefinitely tall building, and for the time since I found myself doing nothing but witnessing and psychologically enhancing the very dilapidation of my unconsciousness.
Yes, the unconsciousness is my permanent docile, I'm not a college applicant, nor a person, but a stubbornly anthropocentric heresy of humanity. I've surrendered endless battles daily - as I stand up and head for the bathroom, as I sit down and eat the meal, as I lie on the bed and wait for another dream, I've hopelessly reached the truce with God. Yet my unconsciousness doesn't vanish, it remains, never in accordance to everything I pertain, never in agreement with everything I'm doing because I'm driven to, and never in the surface of my ensemble, as if it's a letter of farewell left unbid, a pencil of article unwritten, and the autobiography of a life unlived. These worthless illusions, clicks on the keyboard, large hopes and ambition cramped into disappointment, shouts without voice, weariness of having to think, gospel of non-existence, worry me and simultaneously free me from other stochastic things I worry.
Life, my specific paradigm of existing, has so much regret that doesn't belong to me. I live off it, under the pseudonym of a false identity. And I'm sleepy, so without doing anything bizarre I turn off the computer and sleep.
