So the Riemann hypothesis was getting a little depressing because the more I looked into it the more layers I uncovered—things that I needed and wanted to know, and I realized, as I brought things to a close on this day, that I was probably going to die before I could prove that a fifth dimensional “heaven” truly existed. That we go somewhere—or emerge from this—when we die. I was having some doubts, i guess, which was normal for anybody, but I just didn’t consider myself to be a normal person. That said, depression is real bitch, and, frankly, i found that i was hardly as riddled with desire as I imagined i might be once i got off the risperidone. But maybe these things take time, i don’t know, exactly. I think, somehow, instead of having faith that love would lead to desire, I was approaching all this from the wrong angle—that love wouldn’t come unless desire came first. So it seemed that I was essentially getting depressed because I wasn’t experiencing any lust, which, I think, most people would consider a blessing.
You’ve been drinking too much Dr. Pepper and yeah, that might have been the case—since i was drinking so much of it that i was feeling a little jittery or faint and, frankly, not exactly nauseous but as if it was too much for my stomach to completely agree with. I only had a couple, today, so maybe i was experiencing some withdrawal—hence the feeling of depression, and doubt. But it was more than that—I was also beginning to realize that Anna might have had the voice that I might want to continue using as a filter, especially if she became president, but, let’s get real for a moment: i wasn’t charmed out of my pants. I wasn’t experiencing real love—I was taking what could best be described as admiration and wishing for love that wasn’t there. She was somebody that qualified as someone that I could love—she was a real candidate, but, well, the love I felt was actually a product of what she meant to me as a solution—which is a little different than feeling someone’s physical presence and, in doing so, feeling, well, in love.
Did that invalidate all my love poetry? No, i don’t think so, because it wasn’t all about Anna—it was about Ursula, the woman that I believed would eventually manifest at some point—a real physical soul. But did I doubt, a little, that we would ever be united? Yes, of course. That had a lot to do with reality—I didn’t meet people in this life—I lived with my parents, and I worked on my projects almost all the time—there was nowhere for me to go. And, frankly, there was no way for me to meet anyone, because of that, and, since I wasn’t interested in uprooting my life—and the stability that I’d managed to incorporate, well, it was beginning to look like Ursula mainly just existed in heaven—that we’d never actually connect in this life—that she might not even be born yet—or, if she was, that she was living with someone else—doing what people do—trying to find some greater sense of happiness—or at least a solution to what can only be described as loneliness. So, when I began to doubt Anna, yes, I began to doubt a connection to my Ursula—and, when I began to doubt the existence of heaven, well, that meant that I doubted the existence of Ursula, too.
That was a real bummer. So i kind of told myself—well, I might be making all of this worse by trying to force a feeling of desire—something that I just wasn’t experiencing in a meaningful way. I figured, then—well, am i exploiting myself with all this raw and unfiltered language? Did using curse words in my writing make it harder for me to keep the faith? Perhaps it was just too difficult to keep things separated—to engage the story as a story and simultaneously engage the puritanical person that, deep down, I seem to be. I hate it that life can feel so meaningless when we’re not having sex—at least, that is, when we succumb to the notion that we should be having sex—that it was a key ingredient when it came to being in your forties and being happy at the same time. I needed to root that modicum of evil out—it wasn’t doing anything but trying to destroy me.
I’m sorry i don’t have what you’re looking for that was nice of her to say, but it was also kind of irritating, since my Ursula had exactly what I was looking for—which pushed the ongoing reality check: perhaps i was in contact with Anna, from time to time, since i was using her voice; that could be happening, even if I’d assigned her voice as a substitute for the real love of my life. So we could be getting our signals crossed a little—but, well, if I was talking to Anna, wouldn’t that be a blessing, in and of itself—even if a spark was nonexistent? But, considering, I had to realize this, too: separating Anna from Ursula is not so easy when I am literally using Anna’s voice; it was likely, then, that my Ursula was a part of Anna and Anna was a part of her—even if they remained separate in bodily form. There’s certainly nothing depressing about being able to talk, intimately, with an actual worthwhile president of the United States, unless, of course, I give in to the evil notion that I can’t have a meaningful relationship with a woman unless we’re having sex. I needed to get that out of my head.