nolan_void

I was born in the darkest, coldest month of the year. Even though I know this isn't necessarily true, some days it feels like it has always been December. I've spent most of it chasing the sun, trying to find a place where it never gets cold.

I long for the singer with a siren's voice who lives in the dark nightclubs in my mind that smell of sweet smoke and glow with soft, faint, colorful lights. But I can't seem to wash myself of this idea of unworthiness that keeps me from getting there. Between me and that phantasmal feminine ideal there seems to be a distinction, a seperation, a stratification, but maybe it is all in my mind. The mind can be a prison.

And sometimes I wish I could just turn inside and walk the halls of those esteemed dreams I dream, escaping the waking world in search of a made up girl even though I'm almost a boy who has already given up and died. But without waking there would be no dreams. This is where it all takes place.

Are we so biologically bound that mating is the only meaning to be found? It all seems so wrapped up in dating that the only way of rating who I am and where I've been, where I've gone and where I'm going is who I've done. I don't know how to be a person outside of this context, and maybe it's a defect but it has just become reflex to feel like there is little more out there than just having sex.

It's been so long since I've just listened to the silence. Sometimes all I can hear is noise, but then again that is all I have been listening for. Somewhere in my head I remember that I read that Hell is just a bunch of noise.