Awkward?

Try as I might, to never be the one to fuck someone or be fucked by someone - we may call this trying to be human(e) - why does it often feel like I'm left crumpled in a pile on the dirty concrete floor of a basement? I'm gonna be shitting blood for a week and the internal chaos brought to the surface isn't as cathartic as one would hope. Never mind this state though, because it's only made worse by the fact that I have blood on my hands too. Well, I suppose that in this analogy, I'd have blood on my dick; but I don't really want to split hairs, and it's all just ugliness anyhow. Honestly, it's not even this severe, it just feels like it for no reason. And the imagery is pretty ripe, right? But I still can't shake that nauseous feeling in the depths of my being and it keeps getting in the way of my life.

The way in which a small amount of fabric hiding the damp and erect parts of the body, I had a dream solely about this the other night. There begins this feeling, when fabric meets fabric, brushing together and breath is heavy. A tinge of anticipation and heightened sense of smell, taste, and touch. More than any of that though, are those indescribable feelings that only come along for the ride here. They swell and dissipate the moment of cloth less contact, to make way for other, even less hard to describe sensations, but this may be as important. There is an inherit awkwardness that they carry. A sense of dread and passion, inhibited but only vaguely. It feels like a totally honest and pure moment; completely real in all ways. And there is no faking it, no synthesis for it, no simulation. That touch, it's fiery and brutal, and in the right situation, indicative of an honesty that can't be corrupted - at least not in the moment.

I don't know why it seems so damn important, but dreams are usually that way. There was a pure joy in that dream world; it was full of laughter and fun, full of passion and the anticipation of the other. It showed me how readily my mind is to move on, that what is holding me back, in this place of sorrow, regret, and self-doubt, doesn't even exists anymore if I will but release it. Armoring is something I've always done, and it's time to let it all go - not just the recent, but all the bullshit and fear, all the pain and lying to myself. The world may be a sick, grey, soulless place full of monsters and kings, but if beauty lives anywhere, it's inside. Past the guilt; past the hatred; past the depression. Freedom is in there, I just need to know where to look, I suppose.