He walks a lot because it helps move the thoughts along in his mind.  Similar to a hamster on a wheel.  Similar to the function of his intestines.  When he walks, he ignites a serum into his blood that gives him the energy and passion to want the life he dreams of.  Walking elevates him from the cement.

He remembers memories, and question’s questions, answers them, then questions further.  Sometimes an answer satisfies him for a while, then he’ll remember another truth, and begins to question again.

Today, the sky is blue, white and dark gray.  He can smell the thunderstorms that are still some distance away, and he knows they are not heading in his direction.  That disappoints him, but he enjoys the smell either way.  He has found his pace, and nothing but his thoughts exist.

I just want to fuck her.  Why do we have to place consequences on it, or dictate that a choice has to be made if I do it.  I do not want to choose.  The two circumstances have separate agendas.  I want to be respectful.  I’m tired of being the good guy.

It keeps coming back to that question.  That idea.  That philosophy.  That belief.  The atheist’s freedom.  Nothing humans do, good or bad, matters.  One hundred years does not register on the timeline of the universe.  But his thoughts continue.

The need to analyze why I feel all of this is infuriating to me.  Especially because I already have.  Especially because no moment lasts long enough to be able to be analyzed.

All I have are ideas.

The extremes of passion, not contentment, are what keeps him walking.  And he collects these extremes in hopes of doing his part and properly putting it down on the page.

I want her to claw my back.  I want to pull her hair.  There is nothing intimate about it.  My intimacies are satisfied.  There are only a few years left in life.  I want variety.  I want to taste as much of existence as I can.

And then he stops in front of the coffee shop, creates a finger list of thoughts, steps inside to order his eggnog latte, sits down to an open book to finally answer these questions.  And when he does, sit down and ready his pen, as it always does, the hamster wheel stops and the memories fade away.  And the questions become forgotten, again.  Not answered, again.

 

af

 

(written with pen on paper)