On Others

Prose written by the_nev_a_prospect on Saturday 25, June 2011

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Description
*When she fucks other people, it hurts me, like it hurts to realise that you're exactly the same as everyone else.

Overall Rating: 87%

This writing has been rated by 1 members, resulting in a rating of 87% overall. Below is a breakdown of these results:

Concept/Plot:85%
Imagery:85%
Spelling & Grammar:90%
Flow/Rhythm:85%
Vocabulary:90%
*When she fucks other people, it hurts me, like it hurts to realise that you're exactly the same as everyone else. *You're not special. *Not better in any way, not worth fighting, living or dieing for. *For a moment now, imagine yourself faceless, the way you can't ever remember a face immediately upon meeting someone. *Not like you don't have all the stuff that makes up your face, more like it doesn't mean anything yet. *A nose is a nose, is a nose, is a nose, a crease is just that, eyes are for seeing, are grey, are blue, are green, are brown, are black. *When she fucks another stranger, it's like all the things you thought you were default in an instant, the way they say sex makes you complete, only in reverse. *Who you think you are is actually me. *Now imagine her fucking in reverse, slowed down until the moaning turns into a baritone, the rock playing from the stereo, into an aria. *Forget everything you think you know about you and evaluate the flesh, the disconnected bits of memories, experiences, qualifications, possessions, connections, the drugs, the alcohol, the cigarettes, the porn. *A cock is a cock, could be any cock at all. *Trust me. *When she fucks, who you are is who I am is whatever anyone else is, standing naked in front of the mirror, making a silly face. *Now smile and say 'Hi'
   

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Comments

    Intriguing. I get a feel, though, that it is unfinished.
    I'd finish it but it was a spur of the moment thing. I wouldn't know how or what to add, or remove. It sorta resolved itself before I could complete it Grin
    A good rant, in some sense. Clever and I like your play on words. As kt said, shame it's a means to no end though.
    When you define yourself by the love you have for someone, and we all do to some exent (so much so we actually exchange our last names - talk about thick symbolism), their infidelity feels like ego death. Our society takes sex for the ultimate infidelity, irreversible, absolute.

    The tragedy of losing who you are is having to start over. That everything you are is essentially a means to no end. Smile and say 'hi' to the stranger in the mirror, if you can still smile.

    People are more perceptive than they think they are. Often you instinctively find the right answer, and then disregard it, because consciously you are looking for a familiar structure.

    The structure you were looking for is that usually when authors use expletives, they strive to make a point beyond the baseness of it which allows them to be vulgar while retaining a level of superiority. Allows them to give a sense of reality to the reader to better put forward their version of reality, give weight to what they are saying. More than anything else slap you up, make sure you're being attentive enough to follow through what might be the high-point of their work. The part they want you to absolutely remember even if you forget all the rest. Authors know when you're paying the most attention is when things get terminally ugly.

    On the other hand the reason I sometimes write in vulgarities is to present a feeling of that moment when you lose footing, when life feels broken and dysfunctional. People then don't swear out of vulgarity, but because they naturally tend to lose the lustre and refinement of their speech. Then words are just words, desperate people are brutally honest, without any sense of who might be offended.

    The answer you were not looking for, but still instinctively found was "a means to no end". Unfortunately there's no greater truth or conclusion that I am aware of. You either move on or you forgive in an attempt to retain the status-quo. That's the trivial part, the part so humiliating and yet so commonplace that you hear the story every day.

    In my writing I don't aim to be clever I only try to be descriptive. I hope then to be able to impart only a feeling. The feeling is what I hope for you to remember. In a way you put it better than I could have.