Le Petite Mordem

Just before the break of day, with it’s awkward silence & stony shade of grey, drearily I make my way to our door. Along the narrow path, as always, almost sleepwalking I amble, aware only of the crunch the rocks make under my weight. I arrive, eagerly anticipating the bed that awaits. In it lies the promise of relief. Repose. A world unknown. Sweet retreat to distant dreams.
But alas, instead she awaits me. And, like the mother I never had, begins to interrogate me. “Where have you been” she implores impatiently. A question predictable, to which I respond appropriately, “nowhere” (which all places are really)…But she wont accept my apathy, and with conversion to concern concedes, “I’m worried, is there somebody?”
“No” I deny. And it’s not a lie. There isn’t somebody. Instead there are some people. Many bodies. But never a somebody. Just a new nobody with each night that passes by. So much satisfaction yet I’m never satisfied. Oh well - such is life.
Still, I can’t help but wonder why. I question my compulsion, because if I can’t control it, what am I but a clockwork orange machine in motion? Without will; thus objectified by natures laws. All life just the effect of a cause. And if it is so, I wonder, what is my problems source? Fuck it, maybe I just fuck because I’m bored. But no. I know there’s more. No. Not boredom…perhaps, rather, Le Petite Mordem. The little death as they say in French. It makes sense. For a second one attains peace, and from what could this be but worldly release. Maybe a moment in heaven…or as I’m more inclined to believe, a moment feeling the freedom of oblivion. But always it is fleeting, and all too soon one comes back to being. But, if I do die a little more each time, maybe eventually I’ll lose all life.
So I sleep around in search of my death bed. One of these days I may find it. But not yet. So, with regret, for now I return to reality and repeat, “No. There’s nobody.”