Very Few Feelings Make It All The Way To Our Mouths

Very few feelings make it all the way to our mouths. Of those that do, few are the ones unstained by our thoughts. Sometimes they don’t even agree with each other. I guess it’s a good thing we have our thoughts to put them in order. Makes talking about them easier. There are some feelings though, that exist in a sort of limbo between thought and experience. Reaching them is a writer’s wet dream. Let alone getting them out. I would have more success with words retched from my intestines after swallowing gallons of ink. I wanted to yank them from the depth of my throat, to pull them out, one by one and assemble them into a nice neat exhibition.

I smiled the way I learned to. Pulling one corner of my lips back across my cheek. People attribute mischief to this smile. I’m just happy they are too busy thinking over it to try to understand the reason behind my smile.
“We will miss you, man!”
Hugs and kisses. Some tears, of course. A joke if possible.  Partings are hard to describe. I like them because of the sadness they emit. Even an outsider would feel the pain we find in leaving our friends. I like the sadness they emit because it makes you conscious of
the moment. Unless you are an inconsiderate prick, when you say goodbye to someone, you hardly think of anything else.
“Goodbye.”

And at that instant, all the nice memories gone in the days arise with the magnitude of an orgasm. And suddenly all you want is go back, forget home and forget your duties, go back and extend your stay, make it last and make it count. Make it so that next time the adventure reaches its epilogue, you move on with the firm confidence of having done everything, of having drained the experience of all its fun.
Life should make you feel like a fat kid in a candy store, gleefully fated to excruciating pain.  I just wanted to be happy some more. Oh well. Duty calls.
“Your passport, sir.”
“Yes.”
“Please check if you have any of the listed objects in your luggage.”
“Oh, darn it. I forgot my grenades.”
“Mhm.”

Sometimes, I wish time would stop. Or that it would slow down a little bit. I don’t want to be old yet. I have so much to do. Never swam with sharks. Never had sex in public. Haven’t done all the hard drugs yet. So many parties to attend and so many people to meet. Cool people. In cool places. And we would get drunk and talk and laugh and fuck and cuddle.
“Hello, sir. What will it be?”
“An espresso, please.”
“Right away. Anything else, sir?”
“Uh, yes. What is the WiFi of the airport please?”
“WiFi and password are on the receipt.”
“Ah, thanks.”

I wonder if there is a way to freeze the mind during moments of utmost elation. Like at the peak of an orgasm or in the midst of laughter. Perhaps by eating a lot of ice cream. Shitting gives pleasure too. There are more nerve endings in your butthole than anywhere else, they say. Anywhere else except the clitoris. I wish I had one. My own personal pleasure button. I would flick it on and off all day. It must feel nice.

I had this book I was reading. I didn’t know what it was about, it was just a book. It felt good to just hold it in my hands and let my eyes glide over the lines. It felt like the process of masturbating. Not the end goal but the process of it – a continuous stream of pleasure pouring over you and washing away all your worries and pains. If only masturbation could resolve real life issues in such a fashion; even priests would masturbate. Not that I think they don’t, they probably do but I wouldn’t if I were them.

Just knowing about the existence of such pleasure is tempting. So is the existence of all pleasures, really. Is it our fault though, that feeling good is so appealing?
My phone rang. I checked it. 1 unread email. I had more than 1 unread email, this one was just a new unread email.

It was a notification from one of the online magazines I was subscribed to. They all specialize in uplifting news – their way of making the world a better place, by just showing the good rather than focusing on the bad. I never opened their notification emails, I just want to receive them. As long as I do, I know something good is happening. Somewhere. And this makes me feel good.

I wish I was bad person, I wouldn’t have to worry about all of this. I would just wake up and do my thing and not worry about the world. I would swear at strangers and litter the streets. Would I be happier though? I imagine not. Being a meanie is just easier, but I don’t think it feels as good. Although feeling good when you’re not a meanie is quite a chore. How do I know that I’m not a meanie, though?

Would this mean that even bad people face similar conundrums and problems as me? Only at a different scale? Probably – I can hardly imagine a human being with no sense of introspection. Although many seem to be devoid of one.

I kept ‘reading’ my book. I was also drinking my coffee. And listening to music. Anything to dispense of the time I had between then and my flight. So I was enjoying it. I do this a lot. It makes me grow old comfortably. Not comfortably old, just ageing comfortably.
Isn’t this the dream of most people, in any case? To get rid of time in the least painful way possible?

Isn’t this even the whole point of retirement? Or vacation? Why lie to ourselves about it? I slack off because, ultimately, that is what everyone wants to do. Sure, to work before ensures more comfort but can I be vilified for finding a way to be comfortable at work?

I once knew a man, though, who did not know how to get rid of his time. So he just worked until he died. He was not happy about it. He wanted to rest but did not know what to do when resting. The idea of doing nothing was so absurd to him, so instead, he just worked. Until he died. I don’t want that.

My coffee was getting cold and with the dissipation of its warmth, so was my comfort fading. The music I was listening to arrived at an end and the disruption of my sensory distractions brought me back to reality. I was sitting in a café waiting for my flight. This made me aware of the lines I was reading, so it stopped being amusing.

I closed the book and lied down on the couch. I sighed. What could I do? I have to keep myself distracted. Although, being distracted from being distracted is distraction enough to me, staying like this will distract me from even that and then I would stop being comfortable. Will I, though? I have never not been distracted from my life, I always looked for it.

When thinking about it, I do not think I ever looked for distraction ever. It has always come to me in various forms. I’m surrounded by distraction. My phone being a major source of it. What would happen if I stopped being distracted? What would happen if we all stopped being distracted? Would we come up with new distractions? Probably. But we won’t

I think we are afraid of it. Between the end of all distractions and the discovery of new ones, there will be a distraction-free period and I think we are afraid of this tiny transitional gap. What would we think about during this gap? What would we tell each other? Perhaps that’s where all the introspection of the world would leak into the
real world. Perhaps we would like it. And refuse any more distractions into our lives. Perhaps keeping us distracted is a ploy to abstain ourselves from introspection. So we can stay distracted? Kinda makes sense considering the amount of money one can make by distracting others. This can’t be healthy to humans as a species.

Should I stop being distracted then? I could, but then what? We seem to be wired to be distracted. I would just think of new ways of being distracted…. as I am doing now? Am I distracted right now? And once again, I became aware of my surroundings. I was alone in a café waiting for my flight.

So, I was distracted, I thought to myself. I finished my coffee and put my book back in my backpack. Went to a smoking area and lit myself a cigarette.
Is this a distraction?

I thought once more about this man I knew once. He did not know how to rest so he just worked until he died. He did not rest. Ever. But he still ate and slept and smoked and shat. Were these his distractions? They sure are pleasurable so perhaps he indulged in pleasure despite not understanding it.

And I thought some more and remembered that he drank heavily. And smoked heavily. And cheated on his wife and beat his kids. So he knew pleasure. Or, at least, knew what it should be. He was not a happy man though. No amount of pleasure made him happy. And he worked a lot too, so no amount of work made him happy either. Now, isn’t this a nightmare of a life? To eat, to drink, to fuck, to sleep, to shit but to feel nothing. So he just distracted himself from that sad reality with work. Until he died.

Distraction should be an illusion, something you do to occupy your free time. Well, for him, distraction was what he did to avoid free time. I don’t want that.
But what about displeasure? Not being happy implies more than just the lack of happiness. Perhaps boredom. Perhaps sadness. I hope sadness, because then the lack of sadness would be, relatively speaking, happiness. Boredom is simply emptiness. And that’s scary.

A girl across the smoking area was checking me out. She was cute and I smiled at her. I finished my cigarette and went to the bathroom. The espresso was asking for permission to vacate my bladder and the pleasure was mine. Literally. Pissing is pleasurable.

I once masturbated by simply firmly caressing my urethra. Some men surgically cut their penis on its length for that very reason. It exposes more nerves for stimulation. Makes pissing and fucking a messy business too. But more pleasure to them. I don’t think I’ll ever do that. It would make my wee wee ugly. Plus they probably expose themselves to all sorts of nasty infections. But still, more pleasure to them, so I guess it’s justified. Or is it?

Modifying your body for pleasure implies some sort of dissatisfaction. And what if you are so used to dissatisfaction that the body modification does not satisfy you either. Out of – I don’t know – some kind of perceived curse of eternal dissatisfaction. I’m satisfied. I consider myself lucky in that measure; bodily features bestowed upon me at birth satisfy me and this leaves me free to be anxious about other things. Ah, we are indeed anxious creatures. If it’s not health, it’s work, if not work, whatever.

Perhaps that’s what makes bad people bad, the lack of anxiety. To swear at strangers and litter the environment does indeed reflect a certain carelessness toward the world. The absence of anxiety about, what are to me, mundane worries surely provides me with the freedom to – HA!  I think I’ll take a break. I decided to go on a walk.
There was a duty-free shop and they were selling all sorts of products. It doesn’t matter what, all products have the same functions-to assault our minds. I thought I might look for the ultimate weapon of mind destruction and indulge in it for a while. I’m taking a break after all. So I asked for a porn magazine.

They didn’t have porn magazines. Also, they probably think I’m a pervert, now. I wish I was a bad person, I would swear at them and I wouldn’t have to think about it anymore. But now, I feel shame. I wanted to reassure them that I’m not a perv by buying a kid’s magazine instead but they might have misinterpreted this as well, so I settled for a home deco magazine. The girl on the cover was pretty and I thought I might look for other eye candies in it. It was full of it.  The worse instances were the ads. I’m so lucky I’m a man.

How is this any better than porn? It was practically the same thing. Except with tips on how to nail tiles in between. Also the women were clothed but it was still fap material.
I leafed through it for a little bit and then lost interest.

So I went to buy a yogurt. I still had the taste of cigarette in my mouth. I bought the yogurt that looked the most unhealthy. The yogurt played me so well. And that damn magazine too. And I thought I was the one in control. After the yogurt, I was bored. Too exhausted to focus my attention on anything. I sat there looking at people walking
by. A lot of pretty women. Perhaps the magazine was really just trying to enact how it is in real. Or perhaps the real was trying to enact how it is in the magazine. If the latter is true, then reality is scary.

It was almost time for me to board my plane. I moved to the gate, sat on a bench and kept on watching. I was still bored.  Too exhausted to focus my attention on anything.  On anything but the time left for my flight. Perhaps, that this is what boredom entails. A consciousness of time for what it is, a resource to be dispensed.

I remembered that man again. Perhaps he knew. And perhaps that is why he worked so hard, all the time. It was in anticipation of what he knew was to come. The End of the time he had. He could not make anything out of it so he distracted himself. With work. He couldn’t rest because it felt like waiting for the End to come.
What did it change in the end? His experience? He sure didn’t like it. So what was it all about, then?
The light turned green and it was time for me to board my plane.
Well, at least I had fun waiting.

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