A place for a

27.12.2015

An imperfect day

I wake up from an imperfect dream. It was mystic and meaningful, but not quite as much as I had hoped it would be. I have an imperfect hard-on. I fap imperfectly, too tired to get the massage oil. My fantasy is imperfect, I do not get off as good as last time.

I send a little imperfect prayer to god, not quite sure what to pray. I feel the godly tingle in my forehead imperfectly; it is a bit meek in the mornings.

I stand up imperfectly, the motion looks a bit awkward or even feminine. I overcompensate imperfectly with alpha walk and feel an imperfect mixture of pride and embarassment, not quite sure which one is more important.

I look into the mirror, at my imperfect beard and my imperfect body. I make an imperfect facial expression of confusion and wonder what exactly I feel. I imperfectly convince myself that it is irrelevant and it almost stops to matter.

I am imperfectly convinced that I am hungry. I leave the house, imperfectly styled and start to whistle imperfectly.

People move out of my way, but sometimes I do. I become imperfectly torn between indifference and anger about that imperfection.

I yawn imperfectly. The yawn’s electricity does not manage to reach down to the base of my spine and leaves a residue of unexpressed yawning in my nervous system. How annoying.

I imperfectly check out chicks. They smile submissively, but only imperfectly. There always is a shred of doubt or other annoying emotions mixed in.

I express my imperfect charm as I buy an imperfect apple at the fruit stand. I feel a bit anxiety mixed into my relaxed calmness. I imperfectly do not mind it.

I continue to walk to the restaurant where I get served an imperfect portion of meat and vegetables for a perfect price of 9 Euros, printed on imperfect paper.

The sensation of eating feels imperfect. My stomach was not perfectly empty. I am imperfectly annoyed, with a shred of satisfaction mixed in.

I imperfectly meet the eyes of a stranger and we respectfully and imperfectly nod our heads. I feel vitalized, with a shred of embarassment because of my homophobia. His face displays a shred of confusion.

I eat up and imperfectly wipe my mouth. I imperfectly say goodbye. The clerk seems a bit occupied and imperfectly returns the sentiment.

I walk back home, imperfectly eye flirting with some breasts and asses. The girls today are imperfect, yesterday they were prettier. I am imperfectly disappointed, with a shred of curiosity about the emotion of disappointment.

I imperfectly open the door of my house and imperfectly sprint up the staircase. I am imperfectly unaware of it, as my unawareness carries a shred of awareness about my unawareness.

I imperfectly try to solve a problem of a project I work on. It takes way longer than it should. I feel an imperfect mix of frustration and hope, wondering which to emphasize. I imperfectly – without absolute certainty – conclude that I rather take a break.

I watch an imperfect movie. It fails to elicit the drama and depth I had hoped for.

A chick on the internet writes shit at me and insults me imperfectly. The insult is mingled with a shard of maybe she is right. I put her in her place, imperfectly. The perfection is disturbed by a shard of did I express my anger just the way I meant it?

I go to martial arts training and work through the motions. I imperfectly execute my kicks and imperfectly deal with the pain and exhaustion. There is a shred of defeatism in me and I imperfectly confront it.

I spar with a girl. I go soft on her, somewhat imperfectly. She does not go soft on me and hurts me imperfectly. The hurt is mudded by a shard of well, for a girl. I decide to be more vigilant and hurt her back, but imperfectly. My mild rage is softened by a shard of well, she is a girl. Sexual desire arises every time I kick her and she flies back a few feet. The desire is imperfect, because it is in conflict with my desire to dominate her in the fight.

As I go back home, I walk the manly strut imperfectly. The walk is imperfect because I am slightly aware of it and the walkway is somewhat skewed, so one foot always dangles in the air for a split-second. I grunt imperfectly from exhaustion. The grunt is imperfect, because it is never a grunt perfect enough to release all the tension from my body.

I go to bed in an imperfect position. I imperfectly meditate about manliness, death and my place in the cosmos. The meditation is muddled by my wish to find the perfect truth.

I wonder whether it is ever possible to express yourself perfectly and thus become perfectly one with the universe. Or whether the strife for self-expression, the strife for the ever perfect yawn, the perfect release of any emotion is a dangling carrot on a stick.

And before imperfectly falling asleep – I never remember it – I imperfectly hope for another perfect day. The hope is frustrated by a shard of the knowledge that perfection is impossible.

1 vote
  • BlueEyedDevil

    This is good stuff, Tom. Your thoughts and writing ability may feel imperfect to you also,.. but they are pretty damn interesting to me. Carry on. Hope the holiday season is OK for you.

    9 euros for some meat and veg? Isn’t that like 13+ usd? Not cheap.

    • Holiday season is lonely, but I manage.

      Yeah, not cheap. Then again, London and Hawaii are even more expensive.

  • If you stop beating off for about two weeks it all starts to feel genuine. Of course, there’s a whole lot of hard to control aggression that comes with that genuine alpha feeling… That’s a problem I don’t know how to solve…

  • Persepolis

    ”I imperfectly hope for another perfect day”

    Another perfect day? So you had a perfect day?

    If so, What was it like?

  • Smokingjacket

    The perfect day would be that one you’d never return to in an form. Often you have that perfect day by only realizing it retrospectively.

    • And that is the whole problem, is it not? To be able to recognize one’s greatness only after one has experienced it. To see oneself as the hero of one’s life only after one has lived it.

      • Smokingjacket

        Yes, that’s the rub alright. I think around your age I felt sometimes similar to yourself. I felt as though I was a man born on the wrong Planet. I still experience this feeling, but, I’ve learnt to accommodate somehow to the rag and bone shop of this world.

        I remember reading the German writer Hermann Hesse about this time and I took great solace from the fact that he felt similar to myself at the same age. He had a break down of sorts when he was in his early 20s, but, he realized that this was necessary part of his healing and of developing his own unique path in life.

        It’s strange, that in your post you were talking about the imperfect day and in my response I was half thinking about an old poem I read years ago by Hesse that was put to music by Richard Strauss near the end of life in one his Last Four Songs about how we can never return to those times of youthful joy. The music then reaches a kind of reconciliation with the passing of this world in the mind of such a man at the end of his days. I suppose why I say this is that I think you Tom are a remarkably talented man that has the capacity to be great, and I don’t mean just in a worldly sense. I think as they’d say in my own country that you’re an old soul who’s unique and has an effect far beyond what you think or believe.

        Keep the faith my friend!

        • Thanks, I appreciate that!

          A friend of mine said that Hermann Hesse is a eternally pubescent man.

          • Smokingjacket

            That’s a good appraisal. His stories and poems always have a longing for that pure world of ideal child-like enchantment with the world. It’s an innocent and sublime longing.