I keep telling S. that a hazy direction and the slightest desire is better than nothing and none. But desire's a delusion you tell yourself to get on: this is my shape, this is the stuff of me, and I orient towards the so-and-so like a compass-point. Metaphors only get you so far. We're not compasses. We project half the levels in Maslow's silly hierarchy. Why? To comfort. To invent. Because we can -- because at the end of the day, for every level climbed, there's only more to crawl. There is no end to wanting.
I'm barely chasing, at this point. Thinking of J., oddly, and the insecure bullshit we talked about. This isn't a chase at all. This is me putting myself in the vicinity of a happy accident and lowering my lashes just in case the right person's looking. That's not how you get what you want, dumbass.
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I'm barely chasing, at this point. Thinking of J., oddly, and the insecure bullshit we talked about. This isn't a chase at all. This is me putting myself in the vicinity of a happy accident and lowering my lashes just in case the right person's looking. That's not how you get what you want, dumbass.