In this hour, The Cure wails,
"What ever words they say,
I will always love you..."
This trails through my head which bounces off the walls in a low decibel string.
I think of Clarrisa from Mrs. Dalloway, for I have to read her in a psychological perspective, and analyze her thoughts through the eyes of Freud, Maslow, Murray, Rogers, Bandura, Skinner, and the lot.
Before my habits and rather relationship with my laptop, there was the book in my hands, and my chest bare and breathing. It was lovely seeing my milky white skin rising with the descriptive words of Virginia Woolf. Her mind was indeed a blessing.
And it is now in the moment of slight pain, I move a stray wisp of hair from my sight, and accidently tick my piercing with my ring finger's nail. This toddler piercing eating through the skin of an eyebrow.
I am here doing several tasks. There is a small ode to the shell of a cockroach that lies 4 inches from my feet. This ode written a half hour ago in the journal, Breaking Linguistics.
I also read a large excerpt from the book, Johnny Got His Gun, an emotional and rather honest description of how war was experienced in WWI, and how war is probably still experienced. This man writes as he is just a shell, like my cockroach, his face gone, no limbs, and only a brain with crushing thoughts.
I can only imagine the suffering one may endure, having no function with his body, and trapped inside his memories and thoughts. He cannot die, he cannot live, he can only suffer. This must be Hell, if Hell exists.
Before Virgina Woolf and the computer, I was fascinated by my sleep. My dreams were intoxicating by the toxic hormones that manifest them. Of course, each detail of each dream is slipping away as I try to remember them. All I know is, I always escape the monster by using the monster's weakness, and this weakness is innate within all of us. This weakness is sex.
And so memories are recalled, of all the dreams I ever had. These dreams involving the sex I promised to the monsters that chased me. I promised them what they wanted because I knew I wanted it too, but the scary thing is... I was only five or younger when these sort of dreams began.
Freud was a cooky man, but he was right about one thing, we are sexual beings, and we know what sex is before we are presented to a diagram of the uterus in grade five. I had desire at a young age, and I know these desires were sexual even though I had no way of labeling them at that time.
And this thought takes me to another, the thought about sex in general. It is something no individual can escape. It brings happiness, and it brings misery. There are some that are consumed by it, they breathe it and do it as if they will die without it. Yet there are those who know sex will ruin them, or consume them. They avoid it, and attempt to condition themselves to not want it. I was like that once upon a time, and now my sister is living this. And it makes sense. Why live a life revolved around sex? There is so much more... but truly, there is not.
We ask, what is the meaning of life? And no one knows. We create excuses. But here we are with the answer just hovering in front of our eyes. The meaning of life, is to live and survive. This means to survive and let our genes survive. Our bodies know this... it is inscribed in our brains as an animal function. We are built to have sex, we have evolved quicker than our thoughts, no matter what, we will always want sex.
Therefore, it doesn't matter if I or my sister or any person hates our instinct. It doesn't matter if we feel trapped by the desires of sex. We can not fight something that has been the key to survival and has evolved past existence itself. The only way one can keep away from the desires and the wanting of sex and the thoughts revolving around sex, is death. But this is only one death, and not every person agrees to die for the fear of something natural.
It is then noticed, that we will survive, and a small number will not. This number will be the sick, wounded, elderly, or those who do not want to follow the rules of life. This number will not matter.
So notice the instinct, but also notice that it will not consume you if you do not allow it. You will be a body raging in a world of hormones and neurotransmitters, but this doesn't have to give you insanity.
This happens all day, and my brain rants and rambles to itself the thoughts just presented. It flows like a broken river, going and going until there is drought. This drought gives me silence, but then there is loneliness.
This entry is grand in size, I know. It has been on my mind since the day I received it as a project. This is the day in my apartment. These are my events, my actions, my thoughts. It took me a long time to think of what to write. I thought about how I was going to go about it, what tenses I would use, and how the prose was going to develop. I should have never thought about that, for it made me cower like an abused dog, I feared this assignment. But now I know I just had to type, and it would come out.
Here is the ending, and I'm not done with my day. I am thirsty, and so I will drink poisoned water from my refrigerator.
-Good evening to you all.
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