magnusopum

I know there is something wrong as I've spent all day looking forward to getting home, putting the heating on and then hitting whatever bottle comes to hand first (ended up as a Bordeaux rather than Jack). My sole aim for today was to succeed in leaving work and come home to drink. Alone. Without interruption until I fall asleep.

I really do feel like I'm breaking apart. I have so many demands on my time and yet all I want to do is read and write and draw and paint and balls to the job that pays nothing except dividends in stress and annoyance.

When I think really hard about why I feel so lethargic I'm left with one answer: I'm still, after 18 months not used to having no intimacy and not making love to someone every day. I can't quantify the sheer volume I used to have and despite knowing there is someone equally, if not more, experienced and willing to try new things, I'm no closer to getting back there.

I'm scared more than anything that I'll never find someone who I can be like that with again. I'm scared that I only have this life, a finite value of hours and minutes in which to indulge in the one thing that makes me truly happy. I want to see passion and utter satisfaction in the eyes of the person I'm with. Not just that it's another evening, another vain attempt at a release. For either of us.