Tired

He’s tired of himself sometimes, tired of always being him, thinking his thoughts, feeling as he always does, negotiating with his desires. Inherently selfish, he’s nonetheless not quite dull enough to constantly overdose on himself without feeling claustrophobic. Boredom makes him curious about the still-unexplored mysteries that lie just on the other side of his own skin, beyond the confines of his unilateral relationship with the world. He wants to stop his ears to the lonely, masturbatory soliloquy in his head, make an opening foray into otherness, wade into emotions not his own, thus, unawares, taking the first faltering step towards an understanding greater than himself. He’s tired of himself sometimes, and, with any luck, he may yet find a capacity for love.