I send mixed signals. I offer conflicting statements as part of my singular thesis in hopes that you are enlightened enough to process the subtle nuances contained in the duality of my thoughts. I am of two minds; like two spirits measuring one against the other until my opposing natures are balanced equally against its counterbalance and the totality of my essence stands centered on extreme ends. I don’t know what I want, and yet I state my needs clearly; knowing that even as I decipher the urges of my soul, the consummation of my desires still may not bring about my pleasure. I am yearning for my satisfaction, but I also find satisfaction in the yearning; as if wanting makes me greater. So in the invocation of my personal identity I am constantly calling the universe to create and recreate on my behalf; and in my patient waiting for the culmination of my destiny I have become spoiled. Conflicted. Two tongued. Ravenous.
Make him Handsome, Successful, Spiritually Connected, and Sexually Aggressive. Make him Intellectually Adept, Socially Competent, and Connected to Culture and Community. Make him blue eyed, seven inches and hairy. Make him a Top that is in tune with his emotions and comfortable with my complicated history. Make him believe in the complimentary role functions of traditional values, with a healthy understanding that all things are temporary and that forgiveness is the perfect foil for human frailty. I want him to be confident and considerate and contemporary, and. . . and. . . and. . . and . . . and . . . Until the design of his character is so concise that there is little room for error. But of course I want him to be completely imperfect as well; I want him flawed enough for me to offer some insight to his substance, lacking enough for me to contribute to our growth as a couple, and blemished enough for me to help in the evolution of his soul . . . yet not too broken that I cannot fix him.
But I come with no expectations; for I need no man to complete me. And love is not love if it distracts you from your own personal growth. And this year my energy is focused elsewhere. I need to write. I need to perform. I need to apply for grants, and propose projects. . . I am sewing seeds of success, and I have no time for a man; and yet I am well on my way to having one. How did that happen? And what does that mean? I get my wires crossed, and I get lost in the shuffle. I make things more complicated then they need to be, I have conversations too heavy for the circumstances, and I revisit situations that most would choose to forget. I believe that every passing thought has purpose and that every interaction has higher meaning; so that if I am not presently processing the bumbling movement of existence, life tends to have its way with me, and I find myself in the fullness of a cosmic convergence trying to get my bearings . . . and enjoying something that I did not know I wanted while being frustrated by the exact things that I systematically chose. I wanted him to fuck me, but I didn’t want to have sex. I wanted him to be straight, but I needed him to be gay. I wanted him to understand, but I didn’t want to tell him. I want us to have the same spiritual source, but I want to be the moral superior- I'm so tired of being a 32 year old boyfriend. I want to be a 32 year old playwright in an off-Broadway production in ....New York....; franticly searching nightclubs for someone to do our costumes. . . It’s time for the next phase. It’s time to make a move. It’s time to write about a character named Richard Corey. It’s time to reinvent the Multi-character Monologue. It’s time to piece together a plotline . . . to use spoken word, experimental movement, and quiet A cappella to teach the fundamentals of Love. It’s time to write in third person-first person perspective, and design a kick ass female lead. It’s time. It’s time. It’s time . . . It’s time . . . It’s time . . . It’s time. . .
Make him Handsome, Successful, Spiritually Connected, and Sexually Aggressive. Make him Intellectually Adept, Socially Competent, and Connected to Culture and Community. Make him blue eyed, seven inches and hairy. Make him a Top that is in tune with his emotions and comfortable with my complicated history. Make him believe in the complimentary role functions of traditional values, with a healthy understanding that all things are temporary and that forgiveness is the perfect foil for human frailty. I want him to be confident and considerate and contemporary, and. . . and. . . and. . . and . . . and . . . Until the design of his character is so concise that there is little room for error. But of course I want him to be completely imperfect as well; I want him flawed enough for me to offer some insight to his substance, lacking enough for me to contribute to our growth as a couple, and blemished enough for me to help in the evolution of his soul . . . yet not too broken that I cannot fix him.
But I come with no expectations; for I need no man to complete me. And love is not love if it distracts you from your own personal growth. And this year my energy is focused elsewhere. I need to write. I need to perform. I need to apply for grants, and propose projects. . . I am sewing seeds of success, and I have no time for a man; and yet I am well on my way to having one. How did that happen? And what does that mean? I get my wires crossed, and I get lost in the shuffle. I make things more complicated then they need to be, I have conversations too heavy for the circumstances, and I revisit situations that most would choose to forget. I believe that every passing thought has purpose and that every interaction has higher meaning; so that if I am not presently processing the bumbling movement of existence, life tends to have its way with me, and I find myself in the fullness of a cosmic convergence trying to get my bearings . . . and enjoying something that I did not know I wanted while being frustrated by the exact things that I systematically chose. I wanted him to fuck me, but I didn’t want to have sex. I wanted him to be straight, but I needed him to be gay. I wanted him to understand, but I didn’t want to tell him. I want us to have the same spiritual source, but I want to be the moral superior- I'm so tired of being a 32 year old boyfriend. I want to be a 32 year old playwright in an off-Broadway production in ....New York....; franticly searching nightclubs for someone to do our costumes. . . It’s time for the next phase. It’s time to make a move. It’s time to write about a character named Richard Corey. It’s time to reinvent the Multi-character Monologue. It’s time to piece together a plotline . . . to use spoken word, experimental movement, and quiet A cappella to teach the fundamentals of Love. It’s time to write in third person-first person perspective, and design a kick ass female lead. It’s time. It’s time. It’s time . . . It’s time . . . It’s time . . . It’s time. . .
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