I didn’t cum this morning. The hustle has disrupted my routine, the hustle I do for someone else’s dream.
I didn’t lather my fresh out the shower moist skin in coconut oil this morning nor the one before. I didn’t slow down and sense things. I didn’t convene with my sensual self.
Now I feel like a little tornado inside, a tiny one that you could quell by covering it with your hands, but I feel it all the same. I feel the pressure rising and the chaos it could almost cause.
Almost. There’s lots of people I’ve almost been, lots of places I’ve almost gone to, lots of ways things almost could have been.
Almost is bullshit, yet I fear almost dying more than death itself. It’s the almost that kills me, the uncertainty of how differently I might have to live.
I’m almost ready to restructure my life.
In the midst of my busy days, fantasy finds me still. Lately, I’ve been imagining myself, reimagined, remastered, retrained. I’ve been picturing myself completely unrestrained.
I think my work is one of those things that makes me feel dead inside. That’s not a dig at my job, lots of things in my life no longer animate me or haven’t for a while.
So I guess the question is familiarity or fantasy?