Thesis on Discontented Motion

I hear the voice and tone of all great American writers, mostly the brutes from the early 60’s and at the end of the 90’s, the kind of voice that TV shows like Californication base their narrative on (because we always need a new spin). But isn’t that the ultimate search? To find our own narrative, in a place where billions of people call themselves original, but simply we are adaptable. There’s nothing wrong with that. But you’ve never heard of a female Pinchon or Kerouac. And I for one consider myself adaptable, so easily influenced by the going arounds that even the voice in my head is speaking in some sort of South Boston accent. It fits the writing and the mood for me. When really, I’m not at all and you’d laugh if you could hear my high-pitched voice in an almost-too-close to recognizing as a modern American accent. But as I said before it fits the mood. I understand the writing though, and not trying to sound like I actually know something at the age of 22, I have to refer to Charles Bukowski for the sake of pretentiousness. And when I mean I understand their writing, I get the mood they were in but not out of a empathetic reflex, but because at the moment in my life I don’t know what’s up and what’s down. Not like I’m going to get this right, but like Charles Bukowski, he just wrote about what he knew. Life is fucked up and everyone is bouncing between the black and white lines when really there are colors of the spectrum we can’t even see. They weren’t saying they were right, they were just writing about what could be if there was a right at all. And so ensues the discontented motion that not surprisingly, we are all in. And sometimes using fancier words than our more basic vocabulary makes it feel like there’s another perspective on the matter. Which is something I need. Direly.

And here’s the issue. I have the intuition of a hawk but the free will of the mouse that’s locked in its jaws, the paradox. I recently had one of the most intense break in my life and whether it was worth the tears or not, is why I’m confused. And for the sake of keeping it short and concise will I use the mind that I used to open the first paragraph. I have a partner, tall broad type with a lovely face, almost kind of Scandinavian looking with a tint of tan. The guy has an innocence I’d even call close to being pure, but has a numb mind and stagnating depression. Long story short he got sucked off in the bathroom by some guy out of curiosity, and where was I? At the same bar holding his shit and without a clue.

Always with stories like these you need a little pre-context. What kind of relationship is it? It’s not an open one I can tell you that. But there was an occurrence of a far away discussion pertaining the experimentation of the same sex. Far long ago, when Normandy was still fucking Normandy and I guess the Templars still had some power. But still I find myself feeling bad, not because of the incident but because, maybe, I was too harsh on him. Perhaps I am too harsh on him. I can’t force a change, god knows willing the push you get back when you try and force a change. My reaction was like something you’d see a drowning sparrow do, thrashing, hostile then lots and lots of waterworks. I feel no longer in the right anymore, because the calm after the storm has come and well girly, there is no right. Only the things we perceive. And ya know, he will probably end up being the one ending this partnership with me, because I don’t have the heart to let it go. Too much hope placed in the wrong part of life. But it’s alright. I’m strong enough to get back up. I just felt like writing up a storm about it.