Love is meant to be free

One more time, the reflex, the need maybe, the addiction? The fisiologycal expression.

I'm torn between choices and control, or the choice of control. 

Swiping, up and down, left and right. Is my mind just a hungry-for-dopamine monster?

The images of love and sex and sex with love run through my mind like a fastforward porno movie. My fingers down my shirt keep me tied to reality and what I want to feel in it, but condemnably so, can't experience. Why? -You're about to know. 

The images of love and sex and sex with love run through my mind like a fastforward movie. I randomly choose to play the scene that feels the best in the moment. Sometimes it's something that never happened. Sometimes it's something that happened but I can't quite remember anymore, so I put us in the same place, but the scene is still a combination of a past with a fantasy of my creative mind. 

I start to have fun, to laugh, to love; to look in the eyes at the darkness of my room as if it is my lover's gaze staring into my own. I'm enjoying myself with emotion and motion and sometimes it feels quite real, so real I can feel the love. My kink is the love. It is maybe sad, or boring, or simply normal or romantic or stupid, but really, there's no other way for me to feel absolute, deep, out of body pleasurable sex, other than, with love.

I sometimes can finish and kiss or sleep away in the arms of my fantasy, but there are other darker, annoying, frightening, panicking, out-of-time times when my mind is interrupted by itself with a memory or a fantasy of something that happened or could happen, where my lover is a bad man -always a man, not a woman- and he treats me in a way that I dislike, or he suddenly becomes violent, or he abruptly changes his mood and instead of loving me he wants to posess me, and instead of pleasuring us, he wants to pleasure himself with me, against me, at me, with or without me, despite me, or at all cost, with full force and eyes wide shut dilated, on me. 

Sometimes it is a memory. Sometimes it is a fantasy. Everytime, the fantasy is an expression of the fear from the memories. 

My body pulls the emergency break. It stops feeling, it starts breathing, racing, pounding. Sometimes it cries. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes it cries because sometimes my mind is not even there, I'm upset that I can't continue to pleasure myself, but my tears run down my cheeks to the pillow because my body remembers on its own what the past fear felt like. Where it stayed, where it walked, how it traveled down my spine to my shaky legs and hands, my jaw tight, tied in a knot down to my throat and my chest that tries to hold the air in its lungs. 

I'm anxious, I'm sad, I'm confused, I'm enraged, I'm angry.

I'm alone. 

It's my bed and I'm alone, and I don't want a hug or anything really, but I'm alone because I fear being with someone and that saddens me and enfurates me. It's sad because I have good reason to fear. It's enraging because I shouldn't fear, and consequently, I shouldn't be alone. 

As said before, love is my kink or the simple fire of my passion. I wish I was more interesting, or weird, or different, so maybe the market could fulfill my needs in exchange of money or visits or views; despicably, what I want carries the paradox of being the one thing that can't be bought -I guess that does make me special in a way. In this world where every feature, talent or posession can be a commodity, the one thing I want remains untagged, unpriced, unmeasured, yet, at the state of my current status: unreachable, unreal, unforgettable. 

Love, as I want it, is a search and a cause. Because I love, I want to love and be loved. Because I consider myself to be good at loving, I want to be loved better. Perhaps, from experience, I just don't love as well as I pressume. Perhaps, from escence, my love is to be fearful until experience turns it free.

Love, is meant to be free.