Tento článok je dostupný iba v angličtine.
So it’s not working.
None of my emotional rescue strategies are. I am still stuck on this recursive loop of addictive thoughts and surreal expectations followed, as it should be, by the traditional sentimental drop and crash.
I do realize that this is very irrelevant in the big picture, that there is nothing surprising nor truly awful about this.
I’m old enough and damaged enough to know where this is going and how completely fruitless my approach is.
But not only I can’t help it, I won’t help it. It’s an itch I will scratch aggressively, in painful joy.
Takes me back to the days of lonely bullshit I was used to, makes me wish for destruction and resurrection. Puts me in a pleasurable self-loathing trance.
I am in love. And it sucks.
I want more of it, of the crazy liveliness that makes me climax and cry in hidden bathroom stalls. It’s vibrant and full of texture and substance.
It’s sad and soul-consuming.
It’s still there, endlessly echoing in the background whilst life continues to unfold its dull matter and slides on my outer shell.
It all sounds very disgraceful, but the awesomeness of this unspoken bond I crave is off the charts.
The stare and tone will embrace and shiver me senseless. I instinctively feel like curling up in a ball and purring on his lap. The expressions, the cadence of every movement, even the postures and presence are horrifyingly perceptible… I am a giant antenna and every tiny signal makes my hair rise. The skin on my back and neck fires up to the smallest vibration. It’s like I’m downloading a cosmic update, acting as a conductor for a constant electrical exchange between earth and sky.
It’s wonderful and impossible to renounce.
I am helplessly addicted and switched on to existence. How on earth could I ignore or refuse this? How is everyone so confident that this is wrong?
My heart, my gut, my mind are all beating to the same frequency, and it is unacceptable. What a huge contradiction.
How, then, could this not be awful and of the highest importance? Although invisible to the outside, my inner universe is a chaotic magma of life and death and the efforts I do to hide and control it is generating weird aches and ailments.
How do I close this? Can I lockdown and kill the monstrous feelings? And more importantly, besides all the moral considerations, why the fuck should I suffocate my jumping joyous heart, after years of feeling alone and betrayed?
Inner me says I’m alive again. Why and how the fuck to proverbially commit suicide and still call it the right thing to do?
It’s lovely and full of desire. It’s lonely and full of despair.
About the Author
I saw my own blood when I was 3 or 4 years old…
I slipped and crashed onto the sharp angle of a corner wall, in a game of catch with a friend. I didn’t feel a thing, but a warm tingle on my forehead. My mother drove me in a panic to the hospital and handed me a tissue to prevent blood disasters all over the car fabric. And I remember vividly how the first drop of deep red crashed delicately on the pure white paper tissue and slowly expanded its crimson dye under my eyes.
It was entrancing and profound. I felt I was full of this precious essence, circulating through all my human branches and leaves.
“Sereg”, an old elvish word for Blood, disembarked in my life later, but the meaning of it has been attached to me for ages from that first childhood encounter. Wonderful inner magic that connects you to earth, to family, to love, to yourself. It’s the very essence of life that runs through you for constant regeneration… like a perpetually growing plant.
And every time the stressful side of existence dries me out, the simple remembrance of what I carry in me seems to awake the evergreen energy and pushes me back to flourish.
So Blood, because it’s a celebration of the creative and generous self. But also because it is all of existence through the distance and through the ages. Because it is profoundly human and divine. Because it is connection and creation.
No wonder beasts crave it so much.