Incantatory

My life is trickling in my hands, much too slippery for my dumb fat fingers. Less fat after losing ninety pounds, still no girlfriend or even good lays. The last time I kissed a girl, she told me I was weird for not being turned on. I fucked her not—though in retrospect, if only! It would have been the time of my life, though no one ever says that about ordinary things. Who fears not the reality that we all live lives that other lives have lived? Maybe no greater fear exists than of normalcy. And that is why the neighbor becomes the enemy: we want to have a nemesis, an other, an outside world that exists and proves to us that God sees us, that God loves us, that the world needs us. We speak to a man in the sky, a lord in heaven, and he replies in a voice not unlike our own, unclear and muddled with mystery abound. That is, surely, not a terrible reason for choosing the path of negligence and luxury? Indulge me, world, and I forgive the false debt I ask of you, the strong belief that I was owed a thing. I am not a creditor of reality. Rather, I am its creator.