Every time you trip down the rabbit hole of your personal neurosis when engaging someone—the instant you want to impress, to oblige, to persuade, convince, humour, manipulate, control, sustain and manage the attention of the other—you reduce the other to a mere tool that you use to fix the lack and fill the gap you feel gaping inside you [since infanthood]; you reduce the moment of love to a moment of abuse. Those of us who grew up feeling deprived of attention (love) tend to indulge in this kind of abuse the most—perhaps. It’s a neat self-perpetuating loop for sure: reflexively abandoning the other because of feeling about to be abandoned by them.


Cling on Cue

Prolonged solitude (s)tilts you toward fear-based romance: an ego-emotional neurotic entanglement, when all you need is to get laid, and fuck an unbridled kind of deep fuck.


Certain female facial features function as massive triggers for me. It’s typically the soft round ones framed in shorter hair. I get crushed (on), I crash. A good example is Dana Delany in Light Sleeper (1992) and the voluptuous Nastassja Kinski in Cat People (1982). Faced with these particular shapes, I seem doomed to lose all poise and fall for choosing to be smitten and tormented by fixation and grasping and gasping. I want to have, to possess, to grab, latch onto and disappear in Her. Even if I know better I am willingly tripping—painfully dripping emotionally. In effect, I do to Her what I want from Her: I adore and obsess about Her because I want Her to dote and fixate (on) me. And I ask myself why? And I know that my ex had a face like this and my mother looked similar when she was younger. But I ask myself why? Where is this madness coming from? What is the source of it? Femme fatale. There is a deadly darkness to it. A fascination. A kamikaze move. She lures with the hope of bridging the gap [of separateness] perhaps. She is my last strand against the darkness, leading precisely into the darkness itself. The darkness of absolute abandonment. She pits me against utter solitude. For She is destined to leave me. For She is there to kill an illusion of me.



The Pattern

Being alone feels like home. It’s a [neural] pattern that got imprinted early on. Solitude is where I feel I belong. Let me explain in glib victim-speak: According to my mother as an infant I was left alone a lot to my own devices so to speak. Apparently, mother played ego games with me and refused to jump to my cry-calls for she believes in the importance of methodically breaking down the will of a whimsical infant. Supposing that this is indeed what happened I would infer that in the face of the overwhelming emotional pain of the darkness of solitude I resolved to cope with it by relying more on my dreaming mind. When occasionally she appeared to comfort me—timed on her own terms—I felt overexcited [and bewildered I guess]. Engaging mother thus involved anxiety: hence the over-excitement. It became a big deal for me. Alone I’ve found relative peace and equilibrium while engaging and relating with [m]other involved imbalance and ambivalence. This imprinted a pattern in my neural makeup that decades later has determined the trajectory of my social life. Today I seem to compulsively seek solitude and a respite from the company of others. I deal with lots of stress in the realms of friendship and intimacy for I’ve adapted to relate from a state of neurosis there: a state of [hormonal] imbalance and [emotional] ambivalence. Exposure to the attention of others usually triggers a massive neurotic flare up in my psychology. Attention—I surmise—turns me on and overexcites me to the extent that I grew up deprived and starved of it. The chronic observer shuns attention but chronically pines for it—flip flopping between intense bouts of avoidance and indulgence.

Admittedly, this is nothing more but a neat little story that I could comfortably believe and use as an excuse to live love-poor as a recluse rather than lovingly, against the grain of my pain, feeling home everywhere and any time with any one: within the timeless dimension of the present moment. If there happens to be any grain of truth to this unilateral account the narrative most certainly goes back [multiple generations] deep down our family tree and involves an infinite amount of incomprehensible variables. This is where victim-speak falls short. What’s more, these very insights are borne precisely from the pain of the neurotic patterns I inhabit. It is what it is. It’s a given. All the precious pearls drop from the eyes of our mortal wound. Our neurotic pattern is the fountain of true love.


It may ease but it won’t cease. It’s not a tick to be fixed. It’s a given: a peculiar pattern that auto-curbs itself to the extent you move consciously [lovingly] with it.

/Meeting with friends is typically a big deal for me. Intimacy triggers a massive neurotic flare up in my psychology. There is a rush of adrenaline and a spike of cortisol, my body temp drops, my hands go cold, glycogen plummets, and I sweat profusely. I look calm but inside I fidget and feel compelled to show off, to impress, to please. Attention turns me on big time. It’s something chronic (and probably trauma-induced). When my perception is that I capture the imagination of someone and I feel felt and seen, I lose poise and I get overexcited. I proceed to indulge in showing off. It feels like getting a fix. Especially when someone is a partner in all this, i.e. their neurotic pattern is to be impressed upon, then the insane dance of the ’dumper’ and the ’dumpee’ ensues.

Given that social interactions in general are either fear- or love based when you experience a kind of nervous buzz taking over you can be certain that you are in a mode of fear-based behavior. Love based engagements are free of agitation and full of easeful joy.



Melancholy is a great way to bypass the truth (of the moment): Feels so good to wallow in self-pity and to feel the me being dissed, pissed, frustrated, misunderstood, abandoned, disturbed, annoyed, perturbed, inconvenienced and other ways victimized by fortuitous circumstances—jilted by girls, misjudged by other egos, bothered by noisy neighbours and enervating nocturnal emissions, etc.—it keeps everything deeply personal. It keeps the world revolve around me.

Without struggling and constant frustration nothing else remains but this moment, constantly, that turns on a dime, instantly—no guarantees, no hope, no prospects, nothing, really.


As an ego am used to routinely playing the game of putting myself in the position of being chosen and hailed by circumstances and people so I get to defy the potentially undesired consequences without me being responsible for creating them. I is a perfect perfectionist.