Dying for the ideal
She sometimes had fantasies about living on a small island with 350 days of sunshine, clear blue seas, beautiful white sand. In her mind there is a hammock and a book (plenty books, all the books) and a never ending glass of wine. Plenty charred meat, cooked just right and the company of a beautiful woman who is always ready for stimulating conversation, never boring, never bored.
This is the ideal for her.
But she is not stupid enough to think that if she attains that she will be happy. People live this exact existence as their daily lives and are not thrilled by it. She is aware that it is not human nature to be sated, that achieving goals leads to the formulation of new ones. She would like to live like this, for a while though. The privilege of being able to tire of a dream. She wants that shit.
She also fantasizes about the things she feels obligated to have but really does not want. A brood of kids, a husband. She wonders what a life like that will feel like, will it be fulfilling or feeling imprisonment? She dreams of a little girl genetically identical to her, that she stares at in amazement, but that she can’t imagine carrying for 9 months. A girl that she will love relentless, that will not leave her. She fantasises about this because she is an experience whore. She wants to live all lives, have all experiences, but she cannot. One only has one life, one must not waste time chasing so many impossibilities.
She dreams about settling down. Of not being so hungry, so restless, so everywhere at the same time. Sometimes she wakes up screaming. Maybe this is how it is meant to be for some people. Maybe these people rant, rave, never find their way, never settle, never really getting much done. She wont settle to a life so she cant settle into the ease, the neatness that this excuse gives. She knows she will rave and rave and be lost.
Forever. And in that forever she will rave against her raving.
Instability embraces her and she holds on to it like the it is the only buoy for a million miles. She is adrift, lost in the raging sea of her life. Her desires flicker, burn, wane. Sometimes she dates you and wants her. Sometimes she wants nothing but her hand, sometimes anything but.
She doesn’t ever stop herself but she is never not in control, she always hesitates, she always stops just before the heat of the moment because even in her decision to cheat she is indecisive.
She is dry brittle wood and her wants are kerosene, beware of sparks least she go up in flames. But also she is the fuel, the kindle, the spark and the bucket of wa. She embraces her lack of self-control because it is easier to be the one who can’t say no than it is to be the one who always wants to say yes after all what type of deviance is that, this insatiable hunger. This more! more! more! This all! all! all! The world is not hers to consume but believe me she will try and try and try till she is no more.
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