What do I know... and no it doesn't rhyme.

I am fully aware of the futility of my own self-doubt. It’s similar to chronic masturbation that lends itself to a desire for time apart. He refuses to cuddle. But as he is the worst he is also the best lover, and I’m not saying I’m in love with myself rather that I am good at fucking me. Nobody can do it like I can. I get real deep like, all up in the parts others don’t even know exist. If there are known known’s and known unknowns, than making love to myself is an unknown un-known that runs in same vane as the mythology and ambition of Captain James T Kurk. To infinity and beyond but that space is nowhere near as big as the gap between what it is and what it should be. But should is an invented term, and easy way out. I say fuck should, could, would, might have or wanted to, lets adhere to did, will, is, and I don’t fucking know but I’m excited to find out. They say I don’t know is cop out but I say excepting these terms is the wisest and bravest course of action one can embark upon but only if these terms are not simply understood but believed in. Believed with the same conviction that makes Velcro obsolete when it is used as a vice between a beating heart and seven pounds of makeshift explosives. See some never learn that foreplay is necessary before you try and make love to yourself, and that is why a caring embrace feels like rape, kind intentions become violent justifications, and self hate is reflected in the eyes of a father that their not sure is even watching them ride with no hands. I don’t know if he’s proud or not. Hell I don’t even know if he is watching, but the fact of the matter is I can ride with no hands and god damn if that doesn’t feel because honestly that’s enough for me. They say that when a man blows his wad there fallows an instinct to flee, but I say if the meaning of life is to find out the meaning of life than wouldn’t finding the meaning of life make life meaningless, and more important, why do we need to know. I don’t need to know if the sex was good for him to, I don’t need to know if my believing that my own masturbation will create life, but I do know pleasuring myself doesn’t have to mean death. And that these seconds we collected are not a stick in bindle that gets haphazardly thrown over your left shoulder to be lost in paradigms of obscurity that we have convinced ourselves hold no worth, but for 80 years if im lucky they are the known knowns and the unkown unkowns that make this life what it is and I am done watching people fucking themselves out of enjoying it. So take some time with it, whisper in its ear, give it a soft kiss on the neck before you except the fact that you can not hold it or ever really know it because in the end that lover truly does know you better that you know yourself, and that is supposed to scare the crap out of you. That’s the point. It is similar to the way we cover our eyes during movies we paid to see. But don’t worry your not alone in this, but then again what do I know.