Addiction to the Real

I have a love-hate relationship with reality. Don’t get me wrong, I like reality, but I often think of it as being too addictive. I tend to blame myself for the things that go wrong and I usually explain them with the thought that I overly engaged in just a single aspect, without taking the whole into account. I narrow myself down too much.

If I feel tired for example, down and low on energy, I tell myself that this has to do with the coffee I drink, the beer of yesterday, or the orgasm I had earlier. Usually such self complaints come together with the notion that I did not enjoy these things enough, and am therefore in need for more. But this need gets harder to satisfy the more you do something. I have the same with losing time or working behind the computer or hunting for a job. And it’s not like the voice in my head always wants me to do these things, but they happen. Perhaps as a response to my own will to control the urge to act like an animal.

I have nothing against animals, but I did have my favourite cat castrated. It’s exactly that. I try to domesticize the human I encounter when I wake up in the morning. I try to adapt this human to the society I choose for it. This way, I can have it receive the soft comfort of the metropole. Yet the only way to do that is by not allowing it to hunt after it’s desires.

What you are witnessing here now, is an attempt to conquer an unexisting land. I am trying to belong to something I can never enter. The answer lies deeper than this, I know, but even if I am a calm person, I don’t always have the peace of mind to look. Distracted by a world which I know is illusory. A world to which even these words belong.

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