brimming to a quivering fullness, swollen to
excruciating desire, I am about to release this exquisite, burdensome
excess in (hopefully) lofty words...
This is intellectual pain. This
is maddening lust. (why is there yet no female-equivalent to 'blue
balls'?) and I'll just have to wait, bite my lip, and hope for a
powerful, memorable release.
(there always remains the possibility of unsatisfying academic intercourse, dis-course...dis-intercourse?)
But when it hurts this much, when there is so much speaking, so much singing going on in my head, so many unresolved chords (dis-chordinance)
demand that I bring these sentences to the page, demand that I ex-press
and exorcise. Can I commit to these sentences, give an offering to the
senses communus in blood, sweat and tears....
...or, to drop a
tired war-metaphor, the battle is raged in hours of isolation in the
lonely confines of my head. Thoughts and impulses reigning free without a
comrade to limit them, to police my meanderings...
silence but for the music as my vocal chords wax over from disuse and my
relationships fade into a tense and anxious background of "everything
...until I am so self-centered, narcissistic, solipsistic...
I am hunched over, delirious, irritable, and haunted by the awkwardness
of my own phrasing, the inadequacies of every thesaurus, the tedium of
And tarrying with the concept. Resisting the concept
with all my might, talking around the concept, through the concept,
liquifying the concept,
and of course, aching for it,
painful in the lack of it.
Philosophy is incredibly erotic.