I know a lot of people have it worse. A lot worse.

That doesn’t change the fact that most of the time it’s like every nerve in my body is on fire. Or something is gnawing at my entire nervous system. I feel it in my stomach. Like am wearing this kind of device that cause my muscles to contract. I feel it in my legs. In my arms. In my face.

It’s wanting more than I have. It’s longing for that moment that this tension finally drops off. There have been moments like that. It’s bliss. They are exceptionally hard to recreate. The trouble is I have no way to get there on my own. I need a certain type of woman for it. And they are complicated and hard to find. And I wouldn’t know where to look for one.

And history learns it’s not a solution. It’s a drug. A fickle one.

I thought money might fix it.

I have tried therapy.

I have tried surrounding myself with lots of people.

I have tried writing. A tissue for the bleeding. Why do you think I write so much? It makes things a bit more bearable.

There’s visions that plague me. The same images coming back. The same faces coming to visit. Whether I want to or not. 99 percent of the time I don’t invite them.

There’s a voice taunting me with everything I have not become and what I did become.

There’s the tension.

The tension makes me work, makes me write, makes me be quite nice to people, makes me study. It doesn’t leave room for much else.

I have tasted the forbidden fruit and now I can’t get enough of it.

I cannot get satisfaction.

And maybe I live sort of a comfortable life. Certainly not devoid of any blessings.

But it’s not a satisfied life.

And everything I got close to satisfaction it slipped away almost immediately. Or was built on very shaky ground.

One of my biggest fears is that it will always be liked that.

Till I drop dead.

Probably right after teaching a class or hitting the publish button one last time.

It’s not what I wanted.

It’s not what I wanted.

It’s not what I wanted.

Am a hamster in a treadmill.

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