How do people touch one another? What are the acceptable levels of intimacy, and the path to each. We get used to certain paths and resort to them, but they are ultimately a farce, a vehicle, one that we often have a difficult time accepting as thus.

Hold me. So many people have this desperate need to be loved. It is not passion. It is the very essence of passion. Desperation. Need. Love. A subject for an outpouring. You have to outpour. You have to unload. Or you boil over. You boil over. That’s the goal, the lack of control. The desperation.

This is beyond me. It moves me. It is bigger than I. Maybe we simply need to feel the presence of something bigger than us. It can’t be so clean, so practical, tidy, predictable, and control-able. No, it cannot. It cannot. It cannot. So… we need something bigger, whatever that is. Call it faith… in whatever. In God, in love, in significance, in toenail polish and Velcro, or in thought. Something, bigger, passion. It moves us.

So. I preach about “the zone.” I’m not big on Zen or karma, or anything as hip as that. Yes, I can slip into my ultimate energy theory, but that’s not even relevant. It’s about doing things whole-heartedly, committing to them in order to do them right, stepping into the zone with them, and then deciding whether or not you want that to be your life, or sustaining it for as long as you can or for as long as you desire.

Once you have given it the real effort, lived the true experience, committed to it, and taken it into the zone, you can reject or accept it. The best is to just live it until it just doesn’t suit you – fast or slow. That’s ultimately the way it goes.

Except, no, because we do things half-heartedly, don’t really give them a chance, refuse to commit or step into the zone, hence not getting fed from it and so rejecting it. Of course you reject it, you never let yourself go. How can that be good? How can you really milk it or get anything from it. It’s a fucking farce, a fraud, an absurd theater.

So you relate to people on all kinds of levels. Some are honest, and some are not. I try to remain honest now, but that’s all in the years. I still slip into immaturity from time to time. It’s cheap.

Where do you have to go to talk to people at their level? What are the tokens, and other acceptable terms, through which we establish trust? Does there have to be a betrayal of sorts, a reaction to some other wrong? Do the possibilities need to be addressed, discussed? Otherwise, how do you establish intention? What is intention? Intent? Everything ? What does intent matter if consequences prevail?

Love, love, maternal love, physical love, what love? Physical? What does that mean? Is that a “type” of love, or a consequence. If it’s a consequence, then it’s a general consequence of love, passion, desperation – clawing, grasping, breathing, imbuing, devouring. You can only monitor, censor, and mold through conditioning, on a purely emotional level. Your emotional response, combined with your self-defined moral codes, dictates your physical response. Desperation always entails a physical response of sorts, so you curtail desperation, redirect it, often absurdly.

Sex. An obvious outcome? Or a learned response, the projected outlet? There are more significant ways of establishing intimacy. More complicated, perhaps, but better. Yes, better somehow. Yet we stray from these. We try to bring it down to the most base level. We seek to express it physically and automatically fall into the most basic physical expression. Is there something fundamentally wrong or lacking in this. It seems we should seek something beyond this, better, more sophisticated, perhaps practical, realistic. No. Horrid words. Maybe though, but only despite the fact, only is so far as they aim for something better, more intense, more real somehow, maybe less tainted, more sincere. More pure, or perhaps less vulnerable. But is this ever real? Perhaps it can be, once forced; but initially you can only pretend the vulnerability is not there. It’s a farce nonetheless.

So, sex. If you simply claw and grasp, if you want to claw and grasp, if you allow yourself to go there and suddenly find yourself there, what can be less of a farce? What can be more real? That’s the reason, the rationalization, the motivation, the end.

It’s the moment. Live in the moment. In the end, that’s all we have, moments. Morsels.

So, if that’s what we have, do we just focus on their accumulation? If this were so, I think we would live our lives quite differently.

We feel compelled toward something else, toward permanence – which ultimately means fewer moments. Less variety leaves less room for moments, that’s just a given. Ok, if you find a moment, why not simply keep it, repeat it? Because it ceases to be a moment. Because in the end, the moment is a moment by its very definition, because it is only a moment. If it were “longer” the moment would cease to exist.

A woman relates to her friends, different friends in different scenarios – acquaintances, strangers, lovers, men, women, her friends’ lovers husbands and wives, her colleagues, her coworkers, her staff, her students. Her lover’s exes, threats, unknowns, assumed safeties. Would my lover really have an affair with a slightly overweight, unattractive woman? Oh, with a great personality. You choose to believe not. Perhaps that’s even why he conveys it, why he does so without fear, most of the time. Most of the time. This is important. It’s not all of the time. Too much of anything can seem suspicious; and why expose more than you have to, more than you have to and still feel “real,” more than you have to and still understand that , after all, you are doing nothing wrong. Is the fear, the concern, the safeguard, the omission, a betrayal? What are you protecting?

In the end, what are you protecting? Here we go back to intent, perhaps. It’s always intent. Is it? I intend. I stop. I don’t intend. I don’t stop. That’s not about intent. Actions? Actions or intent? Perhaps they are one in the same. Misrepresentation is the worst betrayal. Oh so. It is, and is what I fear most and for which I flagellate most when necessary, though I tend to avoid the need for long spurts at a time.

Love feels good. Someone excited about your love feels great. Someone satisfied with your love feels good. Someone excited about the satisfaction feels great. But none of these are terribly sustainable. They are moments. Only more moments. But they are it. So what do you do? You have someone accepting of your love, perhaps even satisfied in some way, but how satisfied can that person be without the excitement? Is that even satisfaction? Perhaps it’s a mere semblance of it, almost a reflection, based on the expectation of the moments, of the moments of excitement over it, somehow assuming that they will be greater than without – no, just assuming that the time between the moments will pass more interestingly. Yes.

What do you sacrifice to secure the time between the moments? Do you sacrifice moments? Should you? Do you want someone you love to sacrifice moments? Why do we consider lack of sacrifice a personal expense?

I know there must be some way to truly love and require no sacrifice nor take on an expense. I know there must be a way to simply place ourselves above it all. The problem is, why would we want to? Wouldn’t that impede full enjoyment? Wouldn’t that impede “the zone”? We have to commit. And we cannot commit indefinitely. One commitment impedes another. Nay? Stupid shit.

What do you do? Relate to everyone superficially or risk confusing people with open doors, windows, arms, and minds?

I want to embrace everyone I love; I don’t want to fuck them.
However, I do feel a need to be fucked, to fuck, to desire, need, hunger.
I do feel a need to feed.
I could feed on your blood, and somehow that would make more sense, be more meaningful somehow. I could let you feed on mine. But blood is dangerous these days, and there’s no latex for the like. A latex funnel, I believe. A filter, yellow, leaning toward orange, no fancy little patterns, just standard filth.

In my mind I have lost all sex. My body feels alive from time to time. My body moans and aches, seeks contact with matter, preferably in motion, but not much. Once the motion is obvious it points to something else, no longer content in its fulfillment.

My body cries out from time to time. I wonder if it’s heard, smelled, sensed, somehow. It must be. I notice more noticing. I sense brief glances reacting to the scent. A breeze, a whiff, a hint.

But I no longer fantasize. I create no scenarios to carry to promising fruition. I no longer imagine and wish and desire. I no longer consider possibilities or recreate moments. My mind exists so far from my body. The two simply do not come together now. For now. Hopefully, just for now. It’s unsatisfying. I no longer masturbate. That can’t be good. I don’t really concern myself with coming. I want to. I do, but… the concern over it is worth the sacrifice. I just as soon not try, I guess. Is that fucked up! Is it ever!

I want to fuck. I want to make love. I want to feel my mind and body come together, yes, literally even, literally especially.

I feel disappointed. Even when it’s good. Not always. But I feel general disappointment. That sounds terrible. I want more. I want to give more, take more, feel more. There commands a certain level of intensity, intensity that is now usually only simulated by the mere oddity of it, by its lack. In reality, the fear. It’s like getting off on overcoming the obstacle, rather than on honestly engaging in the act. It’s a farce, in the end. It’s another farce. There’s the problem in it.

Do I ask for something unusual? I don’t even know anymore. I don’t know if it’s obvious or totally obscured. Do I love with particular intensity? Perhaps I no longer do. Perhaps I have destroyed illusion with realism. Perhaps I have trampled it and continue to do so. Perhaps I only laud illusion in theory, but can no longer carry it out in practice. Fuck. I don’t even know. It scares the fuck out of me, really. The horror. The horror.

Can you teach someone to look at you again? Can you inspire it? Can you stop and take a real look and see illusion through the years of negligence? Is it possible to see again? To see through the flatulence, through acidity, acidatay? Is it possible to forget a misplaced hair, a wad of toilet paper left dangling from an ass? Where does memory end and illusion begin?

I don’t know. I love, though. I love, and somehow that should be enough. Somehow it has to be, and is. I just need to find the zone. The Zone.