Thursday, August 8, 2013

Frued

This is a blur from a book I am writing about Freud it is a fictional Biography. I called him Sigi because that was the nickname his mom gave him.

Sigi looked out into the world as he walked across the school campus towards the science department and looked at the green grass that would eventually touch his heart and mind as envy for what he could never understand, the growing of a flower, the blooming of a plant, the surprise touch of a friend. He would be alone when the greatest gifts of life entered his mind. He would find himself withered and softly stepped on the crumpled up brown leaf that was under his shoe, crushing it into fragments and the dust that would lace the walls of the living room, when he sat down expecting his family to rise to his entrance and expecting others to care. And ironically they did, his greatest excuse for himself would be his family loved him too much, and in that strange fat of experience, of expectations, would be the depth of life that he had never touched, and he would blame it all on the structure, the human laws that allowed him to eat more than he needed.

Like a man fucking two woman, it wasn’t his fault that he took everything. It was God’s fault that his body could handle it. Alone and destroyed with the evidence of natural intensions would be society with nothing but blank walls and directions to where they kept the inappropriate material rated triple x for those searching the surface for treasure.

Sigi walked lonely looking for his soul as it dripped down his ears in the things he had picked up, the words he heard in passing from strangers about their accidental emotions that had escaped their lives as catch phrases. He was searching himself as he thought of the numbers he was going to write down, and the love he was planning on recreating with his observations, with his understanding of mankind’s needs for familiarity, as they fuck the same woman with a different face over and over again in different positions. He would name that woman his mother and find her hidden in the back of his head every time he reached for something out of his grasp.

He placed his hands in his pockets, thinking about the movement of science. It slowly crawled against the waves of time, as it built towers and towers of knowledge form observations, to only knock them down in two sentence theories, to only explain human nature without insight, to describe life with a gesture, the movement of the hand on a thick cock, a gun that would kill in a war, when compassion was a distant third to money and survival.  

 He thought about his family as he stepped over the mud stains and the beautiful beliefs in his life into the solitude of hard work and patience, as he fell over himself to bathe in the attention of admiration, like a woman with open legs, not realizing she was destroying the only part of her that couldn’t come back. The part of her that burned in hell the closer he would cum, the closer he touched her, as she reverted back to her childhood needs again and again. and he turned the next corner.

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