Atmosfear.

The truth is palpable. And, my condition is pitiable. Well,almost. I am trapped on an island. I have friends - they never fail to remind me of their existence, I have the approval of the fairer sex - I can enter their bodies at will, yet I have nothing. I'm not lonesome,no. As for boredom, there is none. If there was boredom, then it would be understandable, at least. I have always found comfort in the company of solitude. Life is too short to be willed away like this. If there is an all-encompassing Truth, then this Truth can be broached by understanding oneself. Or inasmuch as the mind can understand its own involuted self. There is much to be uncovered. There is much to be confused about. I can chip my fingernails on the subject, but I can rest happy knowing that my fellow man has taken the effort to solidify his investment in himself. As long as ignorance remains a point-of-view, there will be arguments, but no fruitful discussions. I prod myself continually, hoping to elicit some response to the sadness I find myself facing. I find none.

I never quite understand why society is so notoriously straitlaced in matters of sex. Aren't the biological implications of sexual happiness reason enough to be satisfied? When Society turns its cold, unappreciative eyes on sexuality with malevolence, I'm confused. Aren't bedrooms part of society's mainframe? As if semen is pus, and ovulation is liquid irony. Why do you shift so uneasily in your chairs when the talking heads on television tell you they had had oral sex done on them by other talking heads? It is a part of life. I may be young and bloodless, but I know that you cannot set limitations on what you deem as vulgar when you yourself extrapolate that vulgarity to your sex lives. That is why moral policing is stupid. People will derive pleasure from their own perversity. It's always too late when the youth come to terms with puberty. You can't put your finger on one thing and say,'This is it. I have found the Mother Lode'. I am seventeen. Pubescence brought about changes in me, yes. When I see those changes as having a personal quality, I understand. Because they are a extension of what principally constitutes my sexuality. When you force me to acknowledge what's right - contextually or otherwise - I will have a hard time swallowing your advice because for me, the parameters are different. I draw the line on the slate a little bit thicker than most others. So, all I can do is wait for morality to come to me, not the reverse.

I look up at the starry skies and I find peace in the colossal emptiness. Maybe, in the distance, I can sense the cores of white dwarves and red giants as they burn hydrogen to helium. The arrangement of atoms differs, the up-quark meets the down-quark. The conductors hands flail wildly as he falls from the stage, to land in a heap among the cellists. The crowd finds its feet. And there is an eerie silence as the conductor is carried away by the paramedics.

This too, shall pass.

Don't look at me like that, you fool. I slept with an older woman. Does that make me so different from you, you who try to look at the hem of her skirt like you might expect it to burst into flames any moment.

I'm an object of surprise now. Suddenly, everyone is coming to terms with Ayan Ray, the Gargantuan man-slut.

Strained Emotion - Entr'acte.

I stand behind my desk. My shirt is dirty, my head is hung and I stare at my soiled shoes with the irreverent concentration of a lumberjack. There is a woman in the classroom. The sari she has draped around her meaty shoulders threatens her integrity to fall to the floor in a heap of dishonour. I am being visually raped by the sightless eyes of my classmates. For them, it is a commonplace thing - the berating of a high-school student by the Prinicipal. My dignity is being questioned, and all I can do is chuckle. I am taken aback by my own glee. It's unnatural. My fingernails beat a slow, meditative tattoo on the desk. I look up to find the woman wagging a stubby finger at me. Flecks of spit crowd the corners of the teachers downturned lips. She tells me my behaviour is unacceptable. She says she doesn't care that I bring her school wreaths-of-glory or the ceaseless attention of international school journals. I shuffle my feet impatiently. The girl beside me, who I have been fucking for two weeks now, is giggling at my nonchalance. The giggle becomes a cackle and then, silence. The bell rings. The students block the doorway and amused classmates slap my back, and, in the distance, I can hear the tinny sound of the metal clasps of lunchboxes being unfastened. My unseeing eyes roam the length of the classroom, and then they focus on the sympathetic eyes of the girl I'm fucking. I feel no remorse, no guilt, no pain and I feel like Trent Reznor. She hugs me, and leads me outside. I follow effortlessly. We find our bags and sling them around our shoulders, while we head for the Main Gate. She goes on about how the Principal is a snout-faced douchebag and how she plans to spend the evening with her friends at Pop Tates'. We take a rickshaw to my house. My parents are not in sight. There is a note on the fridge. It says they will be back by ten. She wraps her arms around my neck. I don't respond. She starts kissing me. Blur.

I wake up in my room to find her asleep next to me. I raise myself on one elbow, prod her in the shoulder and tell her it's late. She dresses quickly, pecks me on my unshaven cheek and leaves. Something's changing. It's ubiquitous. And I can feel the emotion clogging up my arteries, travelling up to the hypocampus, choking my thalamus till I am out of breath. I do not know why I am doing this. I do not know why I am doing this. I put my face in my hands.