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January 22nd, 2021
I slept in today.
I feel like a sleepyhead, and there is some judgement around that.
I was called to listen to The Dandy Warhols song “Sleep” right now. It is a sweet song. The lyrics are doing something to me ...
Well, I could sleep forever,
But it's of her I dream.
If I could sleep forever,
I could forget about everything
I am feeling romantic, in an odd way, in a tired way, and in a way that makes me want to drop everything and stop trying to explain. I want to sleepily make out with the divine feminine herself.
I was reading some of my older entries, back in March and April when I first started writing. They had a different style, it was just me writing in the moment, without any idea of what I was going to write about.
They were more diary-like then, and this style changed around the summer. Now they usually have a theme, and they are more article-like. Perhaps because I was writing the original ones on the Letter platform, then reposting them on Substack. On Letter you choose a title afterward, and the title does not show up on the page at all. I wonder if this subtle difference influenced the style.
Should I return to that style? I recall it feeling more immediate, intimate, and less concerned about impression management. Perhaps because fewer people were reading them back then, and perhaps because I was going crazy back then. There is a desire to return to that, and write in a way where each word I put down on this page is simply trying to meet the spirit of truth, not trying to box it in.
Truthful speech needs practice, so does truthful writing. There is a feral quality though, because you feel a little wild, a little alive, a little like you do not know where the fuck you are going. The espresso hits my lips and I am feeling all of that right now. I am playing The Dandy Warhols song again, because I want to make out with the divine feminine right now.
Something is happening, and I am feeling something right now. Things are nebulous, but I am feeling the eros, and the contours of her hips are being revealed, and I am not being shy. Micro doubts emerge, as does a worry that I might be a bad lover. My thumos comes in, and blurts out: C’mon brah, don’t judge yourself. School did not teach you how to make love with the divine feminine. Risk making love like an awkward virgin.
Hah. He does have a point. My first time was embarrassing though, I remember it unfondly. I hope it’s not going to be like that. Amor fati, which is to say fuck it, or fuck her—good or bad—in the right way. You have to risk fucking badly sometimes to make love sometimes, and that is the advantage of an inexperienced virgin: they have energy, an unawareness of their lack of skill, and an anticipative excitement when entering the unknown.
I am 36, but I often feel like I am 20. I've got that youthful thumos, and my inner boy—whom I have a good relationship with these days—wants to sacredly play. I am feeling existentially kinky, and things are very potent, and I want to be virtuous with this.
I do not want to spend this energy, to purchase the wrong thing. I do not want it co-opted either, by being seduced by verisimilitudes of the divine feminine. Eros without virtue is naïve, virtue without eros is sterile. Together they are fucking powerful. Together they can change the world.
Should I whisper in her ear? I do not know if I am ready for dirty talk. I will probably mess it up, and sound foolish. Who cares. Good Stoics risk sounding foolish. I lean in …
I am going to fuck you with meaning ...
She gives me a raised eyebrow, in a way that says: is that all you got? I lean in again ...
And virtue is coming.
She slyly smiles.
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