I dislike meeting very intelligent people. I also dislike meeting very good-looking people. It annoys me greatly. I suspect I have a vague problem with security, and the lack of it.

I want
to love.
But I cannot.

I want to watch Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and be in love with Johhny Depp.

All that goes up must come down. Water. Apples. Feelings.

I feel ridiculously unintelligent and mediocre . I also feel un-gendered and asexual.

I think I'l just stay inside my web and never leave. I am the frog in the well.

I'm having a strange emotion-overload. I feel great amounts of love, not directed at anybody. I need to tell somebody that I want them. I need to show. Il just have to go the other way around, show it to someone I don't have anymore, which wil lead to annoying sensations of depression and moments where I will live in the past. It is not a beautiful world.

I was told that someday I will find someone who I'l want to sleep with, even after knowing them. I sure hope so.

The Special Relationship

The bombs go off.
The legs go off.
The heads go off.
The arms go off.

The feet go off.
The light goes out.
The heads go off.
The legs go off.

The lust is up.
The dead are dirt.
The lights go out.
The dead are dust.

A man bows down before another man.
And sucks his lust.

Harold Pinter

His curls fall over his face. slowly. softly. New curls that I didn't see behind the rugged hair he used to have. The hair on his face has disappeared. There's fresh skin where it used to be. Fresh. Skin.
Curls and fresh skin that I refused to acknowledge until they were present. They are now. Present, that is. Present and fascinating.
I wonder how his hands are. Supple maybe? Soft and supple? Hard and fast? Long and slender like that of an artist or harsh but soft like his? I love hands. They define future possibilities starkly.

I feel like I'm writing something I must call Passions or Desires.

He moves his curls with his fingers. I can't decide what to obssess over- the fingers or the curls. Slowly behind his ear, where they refuse to stay. Falling again over his face. Again.The boy that becomes beautiful by refusing to visit his barber.
A fight could do it. But, that'd be unfair. Or overdone. To touch those curls. And move it behind the ears where they refuse to stay.

Fingers that write.
Fingers that fall.
Fingers hold the hair
that look like they could crawl

like worms in a plate.
Worms that fascinate
with movements and walks
that make-up for no talks.

I love this girl. She's as incredible as anyone can get. Its a pity she is so far away right now. I wish I could want her body as much as i want her mind. Maybe it doesn't really matter.

My exams are coming up soon. I seem to have decided that they don't really matter.
After what seems like years, I was being chased. I love being arrogant and stand-offish. I love demanding things I don't want and throwing them away after I get them. I love knowing I'm king of the world. Or, atleast, thinking so.
This arrogance is going to cause my downfall, if it hasn't already.
Until then, I love myself. Just so much.

The moral police is back. Telling us what to do and what not. What we can say and what we can't.
They want to burn down poets who use names of body parts in their poetry. Some others want to sue them.
They don't like women drinking. or dancing. or thinking.
People can't talk about pre-marital sex. Actually, they shouldn't even talk about sex.
I keep wondering who the they are, and how far away I am from them.

Vagina. Cunt. Breasts.
My vagina. My cunt. My breasts. Each one.
Sue me.