Missing Pieces

I just want to feel good. Pleasure. Satisfaction. That’s all I want. Masochism is a valuable job skill, to quote Chuck Palahnuik, but I’m more of a hedonist. I’ve inflicted pain on myself just to feel something, and I’ve done it because I believed it was a strengthening experience. But I’ve only ever done it because I wanted to feel good. You can’t truly feel that without contrast. I feel pain so the pleasure is more real. I want to feel pain only for the pleasure promised afterwords. It’s like chewing food when you’re hungry. The hunger alone would just as soon have a bite of steak swallowed whole.

You do that though, it fucks with your digestion. Not just in the obvious ways either. Chew your food and it takes more time to eat. Spacing out each bite like that makes the whole meal last longer. It means you don’t gorge yourself. It means that instead of feeling drowsy or stuffed afterwards you feel satisfied. Full. I don’t really know how I got turned on to the food metaphor. I’m not a foodie, a chef, or anything else like that. It’s just always seemed to make sense. Hunger of the body and hunger of the soul. One is biological and one is spiritual (or, if you prefer, emotional).

They’re both primal. They’re both hunger.

I believe in self-destruction more than I’ll ever believe in self-improvement, but I only destroy to create. I only chip away at myself for what I hope will grow in place of all my missing pieces.


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