yearning/content

a seesaw. a pushmipullyu. exponential love and rage. that is our equation. perhaps even our destiny (though the word frightens me, with its leaden claim to predetermination); our souls twin magnets of vacillating polarity, sometimes repulsing, oftener close-cleaving in this strange asexual love of ours.

wodge: n. a large slice, eg a wodge of cake.
(i am eating)

i feel as though there is a novel agitating in my knuckles. dammed, and ballooning out my forearms. i feel it as a separate entity. an invasion of my self. because it is wordless. i can't comprehend it, so i can't translate it, so i can't write it, so it builds and builds and presses against my fingers as i type.

let it be said, i do not quite understand asexuality.

i am living my life on a petri dish, under my own dispassionate gaze. solitude magnifies every interaction to life-or-death dimensions. my eyes are burning with the intensity of the world, its radiation, swimmingly-outlined. i forget how to be; myself, with people, in place. yet i am strangely content. yet yearning. for an end to hermitage. to self-subjection. yearning. yet content.