I don't make love. I fuck. And I fuck with passion, in a feral manner, while my mind explodes with chemical reactions and drives me so wild I can barely refrain from tearing the woman apart. I bite, I claw, I ravage my partner's body until she's exhausted. I love, I fuck, I write and I hate with pathos. I -am-, you can safely say so, in a love-hate relationship with myself. There are many things I adore, that they turn me completely around. Psychologically speaking. Because there's no such thing as a mad scientist; we're all mad. So hatred... Yes. Just like love, there are so many things I honestly hate. And countless more people... What's good for? Keeping me... ME. Making me feel alive and different and, most of all, FREE. I'm not part of the mass, I don't wear those tiny ridiculous socks or those gay summer hats, nor do I drive a German car, nor do I party in those infectiously imbecilic clubs. I am being myself and hatred plays its' part. It's said that such a feeling doesn't help anyone. False. It does, even if to keep me shaped as a unique human being, apart, and damn gorgeous in my own way.
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ReplyDelete,,Fiul risipitor spune:
-Îti mulţumesc doamne,că mi-ai dat gustul voluptăţii,setea orgoliului şi invidia şi făţărnicia şi ura. Cu ele nimeni nu e mare, dar fără ele nimeni nu e viu''
Constantin Noica
You do all that loving-hating in such a refined manner I can hardly wait to see / feel you practicing what you preach... soon...