Finding My Passion: PART III
2014-10-20 - 1:09 p.m.
Back, like a bad penny. Or an itch you just can't scratch.
For a long time, I've wondered what will happen to diaryland and the people there. Sometimes I think of them as vampires in the Anne Rice mold, immolating themselves as time rolls on.
And there I am, the last vampire standing.
I cannot abandon this exogenis. I will have to download it again at some time.
It will exist somewhere.
Anne Rice...when she could still write and wasn't phoning it in, that is...
I spent way too long looking up exogenis. Not even sure I got it right. Write. Just want to write.
I know what it is...its not my fault google can't read my mind.
I wanted to say 'fucking mind' but too many f-bombs can muddy the waters.
I still swear a lot, though. Like, a fuck-ton.
And yet, there is no passion in my life. It is all gray.
I woke up the other day, and that sense of hopelessness was gone. For no reason, just gone.
It was fucking incredible.
I am, unabashedly, depressed, and have been for awhile.
I need some passion in my life.
Last time I fucked my way out of depression. With Audrey...sigh...that isn't an option.
I've never felt passion-less sex until her. Before it was performance and communication. Connection and bond.
Now? I don't know. I'm not allowed to talk about it with her. I'm left with the vague sense that it is there, within her, but that I will never be allowed to touch it. Perhaps as a punishment of sorts.
For what? I don't know.
Perhaps because I got her pregnant a long time ago and she had to get an abortion.
Maybe I deserve it.
Maybe I'm an asshole for all of it.
Maybe the gray is all my fault.
Maybe its all my fault.
I really don't know.
Sometimes I don't care.
Am I a murderer?
I don't know. I don't know that it matters. Or maybe it does and I'm already serving my time.
I feel bad even talking about the a-word. I may delete this post.
But, I mean, there's no one left and my words echo emptily around the prison of my own mind. Much like how I started, shortly after reading an entry by the long departed woman 'possumgrits.'
The exogenis was never for anyone but me anyway.
So fuck spelling. Fuck political correctness.
Fuck hurting anyone's feelings.
Nobody reads this, and I doubt anyone will.
And that's fine.
Its just...confessing the darkness doesn't seem to feel like its helping.
Like...I'm almost giving it power. Like giving it life, admitting it exists.
Admitting there's something wrong with me.
But...I mean, there's a lot wrong with me.
There's a lot wrong with everyone.
At a certain point, this exogenis started as a quest to find the good and the beautiful to acheive finer moral definiton.
Swing and a miss on that one, champ.
I've found a lot of the good and the beautiful, and I still make fucked up choices.
Up your ass, Plato.
Then at another, it turned into finding 'Miss Right.'
I can't say that's Audrey. I've expressed my feelings and what I've needed for so long now, only to be resoundingly shut out.
I can't imagine the 'right' woman would do that to me...let me hang languidly, in pain.
Its like being alone while I'm actually inside someone else.
Swing and miss on that one, champ.
So maybe this exogenis should become about rediscovering my passion. Passion for anything.
Passion for life?
I'd settle for passion for anything.
Maybe that's what we'll do.
I have no answers for you. For me. For anyone.
Anything I learn leads me to 20 other questions.
I suppose the next few entries will detail where I'm at. I suppose, at a certain risk.
Because I fucked up! I fucked this operation up at the point that I compromised my anonymity.
There are several people that can track me down, including Audrey. Especially Audrey.
I mean, anyone else that found me...not that I don't care, I care...but, there is no impact if I lay it all out to you. There is no consequences.
If Audrey even read this, there would be consequences in my life.
And I'm tired of being emotionally pummeled by her.
Nothing I've said or done has been enough. Has been good enough.
And still I care...
And the gray seeps in...
Starts around the edges, creeping in, until that's all I see.
I have to wonder if I've been at this so long now, its gone retro.
I just can't get caught typing. Questions start flying then. Suspicions arise.
And then I'm caught. It wouldn't take a genius to come to my diary and start reading. I mean, its how we met.
And then I'll be emotionally beaten like a red-headed step-child.
I'm so tired of it.
I just want things to be *good*. I want things to be *good* again.
Are they bad?
I don't know...