It’s hot in here.
My soul, I mean.
I stand in a puddle
Of sweat, tears and excretion.
It smells of rain and overdue cigarettes.
My heart grimace.
As fumes strangle,
As he reappears.
But I beg to differ. Sex doesn’t sell. Your face does. If you appeal, you’d probably climb. If you are ugly, you’d never shine. Period.
Yet, I am nowhere near anything that define(s) absolute masculinity. It’s a battle between head versus heart where knowing and feeling have become blurred lines – a grey area where I am stuck between boulders of seclusion, inclusion, and probably my right hand.
Life has been slow, it’s excruciating. Nothing fully satisfy, but I’d trade any iota of satisfaction for a decent sleep. You know, it’s the one that doesn’t involve dozing off to lethargy from the late night Tinder swiping and inconsistent, half-hearted replies.
Instagram has become a portfolio and no longer a platform to share my life. Everything is experience-centric. I guess, at this moment, portfolio is life and I am thirsty, terribly so too.
The year is ending. A new one beckons. It’s the same thing; I haven’t really progress, have I?