it starts with a subtle tug. a missing familiarity. solving the equation of what you are; meaningless quotidien happenings that, when put together coherently, are the only identity we really have. morals are negligible. they come and go faster than ailments of the heart. divinity is a fantasy of the omniscience we innately seek. what lasts is a repertoire of actions and aspirations, dynamic and unpredictable. the moment we feel a shift, a glimpse of difference; the tug, is the moment we are unsettled. like intestinal gas to be hidden from acquaintances in a silent room.

i was previously comfortable with a life of hedonism. my thoughts echoed the ‘about me’ section of one too many preteen emo artists’ myspaces. but really. every trashy pop song since the 1960′s has lamented it–living for today. for now. and it has worked fine so far. yet i wonder at times like this; sparking something heavenly and unmentionable on a balcony with a family member of no biological relation. i see true hedonism as impossible. i even question its existence. to discard everything aside from what is in front of you and inside you at any given moment. such as a headache you must pretend to ignore. supposedly we are to tune in and feel it. like dissociative pain management inverted, is it really ideal to immerse ourselves in current misery when it’s so easy to.. detach? i wonder what factors of the now are relevant enough to satisfy this. and how divided attention fits in. sounds, visuals, tastes, feelings. it seems unfair to cherry-pick the stimuli that we find enjoyable and weed out the residue. it seems like cheating. and it changes. thoughts that i used to appraise with satisfaction have lost their appeal. it’s the tug. i am no longer content to let things be. i find myself thinking excessively about worlds that aren’t even present, still waiting for the end result while beginning to fear the journey.

i need to sit down with matthew arnold.

in times appreciated and times dreaded; in times of plaintive mediocrity; he visits me. he grabs onto my muscles and crevices and makes me ache. he is the unprecedented and the other half. the dormant infection  tamable by diversion while easily roused by locations and moments that he has sullied. a song or the table in that bar. the lights i was caught dimming. blowing smoke out of my kitchen window; tucking away the tremors in my hands and chest. a tiny red light jauntily blinking in the corner of my eye. pointless throw-pillows. keep driving.

despite frequent periods of refractory relief i’m left with a guttural oil spill of vocal vibrations unabashedly and incessantly permeating the walls of my body. a peculiar breed of doppelganger that tempts rather than mimics. watching every internal process cyclically restart; insisting i ruminate and crave. an absolute curse upon my depleted limbic system.