From the Journal of a Madman, Transposing His Life Into Fiction

What to do with these chains of lust that bind me to the hard here, the fickle now? Lust for smooth, beautiful bodies and smiles, nods and kind words, appreciation and sanctification, but just not the brittle, cold, lost alone. Life heading through avalanches of pressure with the hope of a glimmer of light, but only the light of the winter sun. How cold, cruel, and distant is the sun -- so far away, so lost, so hopeless, so alone. If I've ever stood in his blinding light, if I've ever felt the warm carress of a fickle ray -- oh but it was fickle! -- and then I belted out a neat tune. Wavering in the sunlight, stretching tendrils out towards the sunlight, begging for understanding, for love, for warmth. Look at the catechisms of cliche I've fallen into: the mind without images falls into oblivion. Oblivion of shadows, wraiths, the forgotten beggar who paws for his cup of mulch: I don't want to be one sitting out there in the cold while the storms tumble down and the cars skid. The cars: who is in them? Everyone is in them. Going somewhere. I'm stationary. I'm the only man in the world who sits like a rock, and never moves. But time moves. Time is ticking, ticking down, away, dripping in yellow streams; every spurt of semen is a lost moment of youth. Do we crust over like syrup for sex? You are beautiful. I would tell you I'm staring at your ass. In my moaning, I'm going to spend another half hour here, hashing out my differences and my sorrows. How can I love you, or at least the image of you, long lanky brown hair frolicking the back of your neck in clumps, uneven folds, slight glasses, small face, small body -- so small, like a child. I guess I'll just write anything I want tonight. I don't do that often enough: write, journal style. Throw grammar and sentence structure to the winds (I just revised that). Just concentrate on this boiling tempest inside of me. Boiling: there will be no originality, there will be no meaning in these empty phrases! Oh I want you! I would tear off your shirt, suck your nipples, nibble them with my teeth, savor the flesh, collapse into the thawing warmth. What warmth! And if you didn't murmur a word but stroked the back of my neck with a light tickle or just the kind of scratch for a cur or a dog, how happy I would feel; I would moan. Not even the stirring of lust: I would lie on you like a mattress. I would curl up into you like a blanket. I would wrap myself into you, the way that I want to wrap myself into the void of an eternity. Jon! Oh the storms are coming, the faces are coming, these are the ramblings of a mad-man. People that I knew. Memories shuddering, rippling like the uncertain images of Heraclitean streams. That ass, the blue jeans. Why is it sex that I can only think of? Why does this organ keep me back from success? Sucsex, infiltrating everything, an ass. That ass! Long poetic meditations about the gluteus maximus and the maximus of the gluteus, or sugary something. I feel myself beginning to calm. The rages are quiet. Not someone to talk to that I needed at night, but just an outlet, some means of expressing all these thoughts that well up inside me along with desire, fear, and stress. It was to my own oblivion to ignore a journal for so long. But I want it to be good! Like a demon, demon of the astral flowers -- all the nymphs gather round and suck sweetly from the nectar and try to feed me, but it's the kind of pulp that if you eat it you are a thousand times hungrier and thirstier than you were the moment of partaking; and they are all sirens for sound. And I am a shipwrecked survivor of beauty. O for a memorable phrase! O for something like a raft I could gather myself up onto in this raging tempest! The storms come up again; like there's some gigantic beast moving in my stomach. Help! Help! Will there ever be the sanity to compose verses? The more I focus on him, the worse it gets! Like the sun has descended into the middle of the ocean and become the black hole, the principal of the perturbations. Trepidations of the spheres. Oh could I ever go up to any man I loved and simply say, "I love you. From the moment I saw you, the very way you move, I need to bury myself in you..." Like a tomb. The perfect realization of love would be death. Now the thoughts are raging, now my mind and not my motions, my emotions are the tempest. Emotions, motions out of the self. Certainly, because when we smile at something beautiful the disposition towards pleasure; and we run screaming with daggers in our hands at heartbreak. Oh there's no end to this. I could go on, on, on. I want to talk to someone, anyone. I would tell a story, as follows: once there was a very precocious boy. They encouraged him, pushing him closer and closer to the edge of the cliff, until, of his own accord, he jumped off and tumbled down twenty stories into the suit and (finally) the flowers that had prefigured him all along, and it had been expected. What does that story mean? It means that all the freedom I have craved, crave even now, is the enemy of my genius. If I can do anything, I'm the slave of my desire for excellence. The slave of my desire for love. So many slaves, so many desires! Oh what a century for genius! These are the chains of our lust. There is no form! There is no form! I would shout, but my mind is in tatters. Things are calming again. They'll heat up the moment I try for lust. I can't bear lust, there's no way I can bear it. God, why did you give me a dick? But why not! A spurt of cum is worth every anxiety; if only I could bury myself in a beautiful boy and die. The desire for warmth, death, oblivion is suitable and fitting. It's the only truth I know.