Washed out

  I try to explain the emptiness to him, sitting in a small cafe, scribbling all the time. I try to explain the absence of feeling, that impassive moment when you observe and are aware of your every move but all is done in a mechanical way, there is no active motive behind them, just keep going, it seems to be working so far.

  He doesn't seem to get it, to grasp the idea appears to be beyond him. How can one not feel? he asks. Is it boredom then? I struggle to find the words to make it clearer, I like talking to him, more than I like kissing him, my side is turning more and more into a platonic emotion. No, I say, in boredom there is something to do and you don't want to or there is nothing to do. The situation I am talking about is something else, you know there is something you need to do and you do it, except you're not really present in the moment.

  And where are you then?

  Well, fuck if I know.

  I don't know why he's even going along with it so far, seems merely content to be in my company and kiss me, it is in a way the purest way I've experienced anyone.

  It's just that pure is not enough.

  In life, sooner or later, you have to decide whether you like it dirty. 

  And a little bit of dirt never harmed no one.