post-desire

Notes on wanting

My singular defining trait is that I want. Everything else that would be considered, by definition, a distinct trait, is an indirect result of the wanting: there was Invisalign twice (the first time failed, which was a patience problem), the masochistic pleasure of public trying and failing, which could be a daddy problem, a lifelong torture of sizing up and down, which is most certainly a mommy problem, and permanently chastised feelings caused by Instagram-snooping distress and an itchy conscience, which is a godless existence problem. Fortunately, I’ve lost the key to the confessional, and now I have all this empty white space and pixels left to tell the truth.

The wanting itself is a restraining order against autonomy, a temporary suspension of life. Honoring the dead and the living in the land of untouchable proximity. Strip it bare, and under the layers of dirt, despair, undignified behavior, there it is – a flickering light of hope. Remaining moments are laconic vignettes in between: pale thighs marinating in the July sun, showing up first at the party, photographic memory, assembling mindless notes on paper, strawberry swirl, rethinking it over, trying to spread thoughts across days like jam on burnt toast so they don’t clutter. All measures suffice when you want and when you don’t want but mostly when you’re in the blissful between, a land of indifference, which I prefer because it means I get school holidays from wanting.

Desire was bad for me. It was grounds for cruelty. Family told me I was abrasive, rude, corrupt, like any word escaping my mouth and touching the room was there to disturb and batter. But my sternum was already showing and I had exhausted all the noble ways of getting what I needed, so why were they so upset with me?

The shortcut from wanting to getting is pleasing. Everyone knows the equation, everyone acts accordingly then pretends they didn’t. This is human.