Or is it nothing but fear?
My life has been dominated by a bountiful bumper crop of absolutely nothing. Via my fears and my extraordinary flexibility of mind, I managed to create a hermetically sealed hermitage of a life where I was (and am) as chained up and locked up as any prisoner in a gulag but managed to hide this from my everyday consciousness by staying buried in my video games and my blogging.
At least the blogging is productive. Marginally.
Through this self-imprisonment, I arranged for absolutely nothing to happen to me. My life has remarkably few events in its timeline.
The average person would have graduated, had jobs, found a career, found a mate, made a household, had kids, and made something of themselves by my age.
But not me. I might as well have been in suspended animation.
Well that’s not strictly true. I was alive, experiencing the world a little bit at least, and continuing to gather insight and understanding.
Who knows, maybe all this time in outer space might turn out to have some use after all. That would certainly help with this feeling of nothingness.
Oh right, the subject.
All that nothing happening me has left a seriously big mark. It has, in fact, stunted and warped my entire personality in ways that I don’t dare try to fully comprehend.
The amount I already comprehend is already traumatizing enough.
Because all that nothingness is stored inside me. I guess it’s the Freon in the deep freeze unit that has been keeping most of my personality in cold storage for all these years. I’ve spend decades leading a nothing life in which nothing much ever happens and I don’t grow as a person at all.
And yet, I seem fine. I don’t show outward signs of distress or discomfort or disorder at all. I seem cheerful and confident and smart and funny and sweet and cute and all those other happy fluffy things about me.
And I am those things. But I am also dying on the inside all the fucking time. Within what I’ll call my Fruvous-ness is sad, desperate, lonely, frozen child who lurks deep inside me most of the time in order to hide from the world that hurt him so badly.
He wants someone to love and cherish and comfort and protect him. Someone to finally parent him so he can grow in the sunshine of their love instead of withering and wintering away as he waits, and waits, and waits.
Waiting for something that will never happen. People don’t usually parent adults. And the knee-jerk therapist response would be to tell me I have to parent myself.
But that doesn’t fucking work. A plant can’t generate its own sunlight any more than you can make a boat go forward by blowing on the sails. I don’t have an internalized model of competent parenting to model myself on. I don’t have a source of warmth and love and happiness to draw upon in my soul. I don’t have faith.
I don’t have faith.
Faith in what? I excluded faith as a possibility when I was very young. I took the path of the Truth, of science and reason and logic, thinking quite naively that it would be enough to sustain me.
But paranoia, mistrust, hostility, bitterness, and subterranean rage can never truly be enough to live on. They can keep you going but they can’t sustain any growth.
And so here I sit, caught between the aching desire to finally burst into bloom already and the glacial chill of all that god damned nothing.
I wish I could burn it all away.
More after the break.
Two gay furry smut comics I’ve enjoyed recently.
Warning, this one has a bunch of weird fetishes, like (adult) twincest and genital inflation, but if you ignore all that and concentrate on the story, like I did, you’ll find the writing is actually quite good.
This one is just straight up (sic) gay smut, no weird fetishes, but what truly impressed me was the emotional depth and understanding our protagonists express amidst all the buttfucking and cocksucking.
Hold me close and don’t let go
I really feel the depth of their bond and their love. It moved me.
And to me, that’s very sexy.
The man in the cell
“Oh, I’m not locked up in here at all. ” said the man in the cell. “I know it may look like I am, but I assure you, I am not.”
“It would take far more than a few bits of tin, ” he said as he gently rattled his steel manacles, “or a few puny pebbles, ” he said as he gestured to the enormous concrete slabs his cell was made of, ” to hold back a man such as I. Why, any time I want, I can simply snap these chains like they’re nothing but wet tissue paper and smash that wall to pieces with a single punch and walk right out of here, and there is nothing that anything or anyone could do to stop me. ”
“I just choose not to at this time. ”
That said, he settled back into his manacles with an air of self-satisfaction, clearly quite pleased by the thought of his own awesome abilities.
And it’s not like I could prove him wrong. For all I, his jailor, knew, maybe he really could do all those things. Anything is possible, after all.
And I’d only been working in the King’s Dungeon for eight years, and he had been one of my wards that entire time, so I have no idea what he was like before he was here.
Maybe before he was jailed he was a mighty raging giant who could uproot trees like he was pulling a weed and throw them so far they disappeared over the horizon. Maybe one day he would finally grow tired of our modest accommodations and smash his way out of here with casual ease. Maybe the only reason he had stayed the King’s prisoner for so long was that he appreciated the peace and quiet as it gave him time to truly meditate upon the eternal verities and how they relate to the welfare of mankind.
Maybe all of these things about him were true.
But I really doubt it.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.