bridge over troubled water

And so I grab a pen again, simply because it's rainy, cold and past 1a.m.... and I thought of you. Life is okay as long as I don't think of the future - or the past. I've bought a self-help book and I'll go on a diet again soon (well, I must), which reminds me I should exercise again. As I write I feel there's beauty in routine, and I wonder what's yours like. What's it like being you? Such questions are very interesting to me.

Last time we spoke you said I was wasting my life on guys I could never get and that I wasn't going to live past my 30s - maybe you're even right, though only time will tell. For now, most of the time, I'm okay with myself for a weird reason I have no idea of. I'm slowly trying to grow within my limitations rather than try outgrowing my limitations - that whole evolution before revolution thing.

I don't have much to talk about my life with others when they ask me what's up, except really mundane stuff which is what most conversations are made of once you know someone. However, if these walls could talk, they'd tell you I'm trying. All within my limits. It's hard having to say something new and exciting everyday, isn't it?

My mind is finally realizing how faraway internet relationships cannot be - but it hasn't warned my body yet, for it's still lost in aimless longing. Maybe it'll happen soon.

Sometimes Dylan's "One of Us Must Know (Sooner or Later)" comes to mind about us. Perhaps I never realized how young we were and still are, but most likely this was never about age. The magic is that we've been a part of each other's lives and nothing will change that. I have all I could ever have of you: pictures, handwriting, and your voice. One of them is real. It's sad, but so are most things if we don't make an effort to see otherwise. An effort we don't always want to make.
For instance, I was talking today with a friend about life nd if I'd rather be happy in life and soon forgotten or lead a troublesome existence that would leave me on History. I doubt there's a soul out there who never wanted to be famous, rich or loved by many, but... I guess my dreams haven't been of that nature for many years. Using that common sense, if I write a book, plant a tree and have a son, it'll be okay. I don't think small, or maybe I do - but I act small, or maybe I don't. Adulthood calls us all eventually.

Perhaps I never loved you, only the idea of never being able to have you for many, many reasons. The body always wants, but the mind plays a different game. Perhaps my obsession towards you was all about getting me to show myself once again I'm unlovable.

I'm still trying, though echoes of your un-sexualization sometimes make me act that way too, which ends up only being something I say in the heat of the moment and not something I can actually do. Some things are hard and most of them are yet to come, and very likely love isn't the biggest issue here - oddly, it doesn't seem the most likely to get me killed, as you might know. You've chosen Jesus, I just might choose Nietzsche.

yours,
yuri.

i am we

I want to be impregnated by men from different countries, I want sons and venereal diseases from each and every one of them. I want to carry them with me, I want the world in me. My plan is to have sex with as many men from as many different countries as I can. I want to be fucked by a beautiful man from Poland, and I want to be bathed in Swedish cum, still hot from extraction. I want the warmth of your body in mine, for I’m so cold. I need you to fill my hole. I need you to fill my holes. I need you whole. I want your children.

I want your underwear after a hard day’s work, I want to wear it on my face for as long as time can exist. I want your smell to take me. I want your urine right at my face so I can reach the golden halls of desire. I want it all, I want to much, but we all know it’s not nearly enough. So I want your hair, and I want to rub it on me after feeling it softly through my curious fingers. I want to clean your round and delicious butt with my tongue after you recycle, as long as I can lick your double heir production center and feel I hold all your future generations in my mouth. I want your rock-hard cocks splitting my willing ass, finnish man. I’d like it all for a hedonistic second or two just between the moment we ascend to the moment we’re back. I want to kiss your belly and follow the trail of hair (such a wonderful vegetation) that leads, any way I take, to dreamland. I want to hide myself in your bush, I want to sleep on you (and I want you to sleep on this). I want to lick the sweat out of your armpits. And if I’m ever insatiable, I want to be a big cook and taste your flesh. And when I’m satisfied then we can both be sure I am we.