These lingering images, they taunt me so much. I walked a year ago, worked on myself, healed the addiction, but circumstances are draining me out on all levels, and very little is fueling me. Nootropics used to work, now they don’t and there’s no good reason for it. Other techniques help stabilize my mood but the fatigue and brain fog is relentless.
That thirst, binging on those fantasies, that got me through before. I never had such a wide selection of muses before, but they don’t ignite me in the ways I need and this makes me livid.
Walking away from the last muse tanked my sexual thirst, my treatment regimen worked, it worked well, but life is backing me into a corner and nothing is boosting me in the ways I need.
So life, stop cucking me with those visuals of someone I can’t taste, this isn’t doing much for me, other than adding to the anger and frustration and this isn’t helping my body and mind function better.
I force out those visuals over and over again, but they come back worse lately. Show me a muse worthy of the things in my mind, of the kinds of art I’d make of them, of the handcrafted sensory installations I’m dying to construct.
If I’m going to get cucked around by such fantasies, give me someone that can be part of my life in meaningful ways, who’d take my partner and I as their wives, not this horse shit of someone that was barely around, someone who saw me as less than for being wounded and cracked.
Show me someone I can taste, someone that energizes me in the ways I need. Show me the real fountain of inspiration, stop showing me people, show me something better. Show me the essence behind it all, the beauty I chased in the wrong faces.
Give me the eyes that crave the dance I’ve yet to perform, shower me in lust and passion to revitalize me. You make him dance in my head, up your game life, flood my broken mind with the madness needed to propel me forward.
The thing wearing his face in my head, take the mask off, rip that fucking flesh off of your frame, you wanna head fuck me? Go head and go for it, but show me you, quit your bullshit and show me you, the thing that puppets those fantasies.
No don’t put him on a stripper pole with nipple tassels, quit your bullshit, show me you. Yes, right now, I mean it.
A shadow, a fragmented and unloved part of me, you keep dressing up like that to get noticed, and to be loved, to funnel that passion and thirst inward. You, like the other fragments, are welcome within and loved.
Dance with me, come alive with me, cast away that suit, throw away that mask. Be you and be loved, integrate, you’re home.
And the shadow becomes a reflection again, I’ve neglected self love for a bit too long.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/otiwgq/i_thirst_for_a_muse_that_doesnt_exist_im_too