unfiltered psychological documentation

 Woke up at 5:30—it must be, or it might not be. Didn’t watch the clock, but usually it is around 5:30. I didn’t wake up, but my piss wouldn’t stop; my bladder was bursting. Don’t know how long I could hold—I haven’t experimented yet. I set my alarm at 6 o’clock before going to bed at night.

After pissing at 5:30 or whatever, I slept again to give my alarm some purpose and responsibility, and then I started to think about the purpose of my life. Usually I do it when I have nothing to do, or I have done all the things in a day. It starts with my purpose, and then it shifts to sex, and then to death. I was good at making things, so I was calm while thinking about it. I have learned that panicking will make it worse, and it’s just my imagination—why make it worse when you can make it better?

Sex and death—only these two fascinate me. I have never experienced them. Death, the greatest escape, the ultimate orgasm. But how come most of the Indian women never have an orgasm? Having a child is never an orgasm—they mistake it with it. I think they don’t even know about orgasm. It means that they can’t even fake it.

I read that having intercourse for 3 hours, then that experience makes you to never think about sex again. Usually one does it not more than a minute or two, then the thought of doing it again and again. And I have observed that most of them are spiritually empty. The point that leads to spiritual experience is sex—fully understanding it and experiencing timelessness, egolessness, and the ultimate oneness of being with existence comes from a full experience of sex.

And most of them I know have said to me that their wives don’t suck their cocks while they suck their pussies. How horrible things are going. People who have kids are saying these things to me. What the fuck I can do? They might have said only 10% of their minds, and what wild things they have in their minds, only God knows it.

And the alarm rings—I hit stop. If I snooze it, then I’d be lost again in the meaning of life and stuff. I better stop it.

Then I drank some water from my steel bottle—it tastes like fungus. I never tasted fungus; only I have smelled it. Smelling is the key: if you don’t smell it and you take it, you will not feel it—like you close your eyes and nose and eat a tomato, apple, potato, it might be same.

I brush, go to bathroom, take a good shit. Hot turds in the morning makes the day better, and then (while having the shit, I think of Manthena Satyanarayana—what a crazy fellow, he shits only for 10 seconds or so), and while brushing I also think of him not brushing his teeth.

And then I eat peanuts which I have soaked overnight, and then I fill my steel bottle and wear my shoes (once again the existential crisis) and leave to the stadium.

I walk for 30 minutes straight, and I notice this couple—he in shorts and T-shirt and she in T-shirt and yoga pants (black). I walk behind them. There is no ass visible, so I overtake them, and I missed her face, but she is white. Completing my fourth round, they both were doing exercises, and I couldn’t stop staring at them—her breasts juggling while doing the jumping thing.

And then my fifth round, I leave—they also leave. Her sweat-soaked pants, her hairy armpits, her juggling breasts—I want to eat all of them. I am right behind her. I want to squeeze her in the crotch and finger fuck her pussy so wild that I want her in convulsions, wanting more and more, and I finally liberate her so that she never comes back to walk here and never see me again and make me a better person.

Then they leave on their bike, and I follow them. It’s about half kilometre—I follow them, and her husband is going in different direction, and I see two women going on their scooty, legs wide spread with enough air to breathe in between their thighs (the way to heaven is through women’s legs), and I follow them.

Those thick white flesh inside those tight red leggings—I follow them. I am beside them, and I want to feel those soft flesh. I want to slowly place my right hand on her right thigh and slowly take it down, and then turn her around and harass those red leggings and squeeze the twat and bite the navel and licking all her soft purple lips and make her scream.

And now they are in different direction. My God, the animal I am. Good that I am a writer—I have poured it here. So many people don’t even acknowledge their feelings, suppress them only to make them ugly in different ways.

I have reached home. I take my bath. Thinking about those women in bathroom doesn’t make it any better—just rub it out and flush the thick, but walking for an hour and taking a cold shower channelizes it.

And then I practice my sketches and watercolor, and nothing happens in a day, and I watch this movie Ex Machina, and it was good and disturbing.

And the day is up. The sun is gone. What would a freak would have done if he was in my place?

Getting rid of sex is never an option—only transforming it and understanding is.