Inside a Radical

Obviously, the first circumstantial words are breezy, if mildly uncomfortable, and the patient observer inside sometimes even hazards perspective with an encouraging You're Doing It!, but once these formalities run dry, the next step, highly mutual as it is, seems ridiculously out of reach, and, as the scatologist might say, the conversation stalls. The self censors anything interesting on the basis that its sensors are not nearly tuned enough to discern, to a safe degree, what the response could possibly be; outside the moment, it reasons, is a minefield too risky to navigate. The problem with such a philosophy, as all us non-afflicted can attest, is that it's rubbish.

The fairer, in all their down-trodden wisdom, can no doubt spot this error. There's Another One, they say behind hushed palms, pointing helpfully. My three exes, entirely as lewd as that makes them sound, knew this, but four, seven and two months too late, respectively. If their lewdness weren't so rewarding, perhaps I'd regret my misleadingly scintillating and ultimately peeling (if you dig) conversations. But the past's for forgetting, see, not regretting (yecch). On the other hand, you must admit that cloaking one's internal moaning in safe, cold distance is as much a manifestation of the problem as it is a symptom of it. Myself, I admit nothing but ignorance.