I hate Pan. I hate him. I HATE HIM. I hate his drugs, I hate his influence, I hate his semi-psychotic intellectual diatribes, I hate his dependence, I hate his beauty, I hate him.
Except that I don't. Everything I hate about him, I don't. Those are the things I love about him. And that is exactly why I hate them.
I could have had some semblance of normality and faith and sobriety in my life, but I preferred him.He had a certain carefree, I-don't give-a-shit attitude, combined with his fucked up wounded brand of beauty, that just drew me in.
He is there for me to fuck, snuggle, or just converse with. And the conversations are fantastic. He is one of few people I can in fact respect as my equal, in terms of intelligence, and we know that neither of us can really say anything which would offend the other no matter what. We swing wildly and with no discernible segues from intellectual discourse to philosophy to mushy earnestness to juvenile dick jokes to applying the former three to the latter. They're silly and deep and meaningful and stupid and nonsense and worldly and incoherent all at once.
He makes everything seem okay. It seems to be his purpose in my life, to be my "make life okay" guy. If I had a bad day, he holds me and talks me through it. If I'm lonely, he shares his bed and his body. If my head hurts, he rubs it. If I feel unloved, his words and actions show me otherwise. Anything I need, he is there to provide. Everything except stability. Except normality. Except sobriety.
But he is there with warmth and comfort and love.
Maybe that is enough.
Except that I don't. Everything I hate about him, I don't. Those are the things I love about him. And that is exactly why I hate them.
I could have had some semblance of normality and faith and sobriety in my life, but I preferred him.He had a certain carefree, I-don't give-a-shit attitude, combined with his fucked up wounded brand of beauty, that just drew me in.
He is there for me to fuck, snuggle, or just converse with. And the conversations are fantastic. He is one of few people I can in fact respect as my equal, in terms of intelligence, and we know that neither of us can really say anything which would offend the other no matter what. We swing wildly and with no discernible segues from intellectual discourse to philosophy to mushy earnestness to juvenile dick jokes to applying the former three to the latter. They're silly and deep and meaningful and stupid and nonsense and worldly and incoherent all at once.
He makes everything seem okay. It seems to be his purpose in my life, to be my "make life okay" guy. If I had a bad day, he holds me and talks me through it. If I'm lonely, he shares his bed and his body. If my head hurts, he rubs it. If I feel unloved, his words and actions show me otherwise. Anything I need, he is there to provide. Everything except stability. Except normality. Except sobriety.
But he is there with warmth and comfort and love.
Maybe that is enough.