/DAY 47/

CAN YOU HEAR MY VOICE TONIGHT?

I’m not the man you used to see. I’m not even the man I see in the mirror.  I’ve never slutted with a heavy heart. I walked through bathhouses, dropped my towel and discovered my power. I don’t have a morality of shame. I connected to my body by exposing it all. And I took to beds and laid in eyelines and laughed at looking down on me because I liked to hand out my heart in a million pieces. I had a whole love-treasure trove to dip into when I needed it. And I’d stroke b80% eards and kiss necks and listen hours on end to anyone tell me their experiences, because existence is about sharing and knowing and I wanted to be an encyclopedia on everything I could escape with during what most people called empty, meaningless sex.  I used to emit empathy out my eyes. And I heard thousands and thousands’ mens’ tales. And I listened, to get a clearer picture at what makes a human. It’s what I wanted since I was a boy: to enjoy, be joyous, in knowing. I never expected to be known.

OMNION, ARE YOU THERE?

I WANT TO BE THE BEST MAN THAT I CAN BE

Trauma took my joy. Couldn’t relax, layabout and relax in sheets while someone’s story shaped theirs and mankind’s skin on the pillow next to me. Couldn’t breathe easy. I’d gasp little breaths and hyperventilate. I disassociated at the scent of musk. I wondered when I’d smile again when they smiled and mean it. And it drove me crazy. Maybe literally. I don’t want to be known. I don’t think I’ll ever be known. But I want to be the best man I can be. And I danced that dichotomy by deep-dicking in someone, having a philosophy by hookup osmosis. And I was happy. I’m realistic: I know no one can hold me down and I’d be happy being in the arms of another hours infinite. And when trauma took that away I didn’t know why I was still here. I took me to my room and  I spent hours and hours and weeks and then months and  six months alone. And I lost me.

SO CAN YOU HELP?

And I asked Omnion. I looked beyond me. And everything was silent.  I can’t say what began my repairs, but it wasn’t prayer. I write about rehab-ing me and the pop music that saved me because maybe people looking to seek answers won’t be met with silence. Maybe Google will send them stumbling here and the technocracy and techno will take them away, push the pain away.

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