I'm sitting at my computer, hovering halfway between sleep and death, trying to finalise the resignation from my current job - which I've been putting off on account of the fact that it's impossible - when a whole load of things hit me at once. An indistinct memory of coach journeys in the rain, black shapes moving outside the window as I listen to the whole of Gold Mother. A joke half-told but left unfinished. And sex. So much sex. I'm reading words and they blend into the screen, into each other. As a momentary distraction to what I'm doing, I crack open blogs and I skim as fast as possible through what's there to read, as if trying to hide this indiscretion.
I can't tell when it happens, or even why. Other people's desires become mine and I squeeze my thighs together because I know not what else to do. I feel myself getting harder, more and more turned on than I have been for days, because of a few words on a screen and the sexual urges add to the flickering lights in my head. Am I tired? Am I horny? I manage to wrestle my thoughts together to ask myself whether I want to deal with the constant throbbing strain in my trousers or whether I should just ignore it and carrying on with pretending to work.
Part of me wants to do each, tells me not to be too greedy, too lustful, too debauched without debauchery. Most of me wants to just walk a few paces and collapse onto the bed, maybe curling up into a little ball and hiding my head in my arms like I used to do when I felt like this. Or just get under the covers. Or go somewhere and walk... just walk... if my body will allow me to. Physically, I feel like a mess.
And my head screams loud and long inside and I want to feel the burn of lust just as I want to go to sleep, but I know I should be awake and working on not working or in a coach in the rain listening to Gold Mother or writing in my blog or reading yours and it all adds up to much, too much, much too much...
I put my head in my hands and push my computer back and lay my head down on the desk, slumped like I've been defeated in battle, defeated by my own swirling head and my tired, beaten body
and I blink
and I sit up
and I go to make some tea
and I sit back down and I look back at the screen
and I breathe
and I wonder to myself exactly what's apparent, and what's not, and if there's always something more at work than we think there is.
And so I open a window myself. And I start to type.