He asked me if I am hungry.
I have a large appetite for mental and emotional stimulation. Small talk is like a petty slap to my face. The most generic greeting of, “Hey, what’s up?” inspires the acid, which lingers in my stomach lining, to violently climb the walls- yet somehow my brain will force to accommodate the idea of being polite in response if I have the spare time to waste my time. Discussing monetary successes and “what I do” with a mere stranger or acquaintance is too personal for my taste to compel interest in such conversations. I find myself repelled by outside forces of mindless tradition and the substandard ideals of superficiality that have been engraved by mentally expired societal norms. Sex talk is not sexy without substantial substance to open the cage of passionate fire. I can imagine being seduced by an intriguing play of wit formated with an authentic interest to dig deep into my being; unlocking the codes to the buried treasure that yearns to be found. Criticisms and egotistical mind games are a natural repellent, as they do not suffice with what my heart wants nor what it’s capable of. A lack of interest is a mirror of itself. My imagination is wild and constantly craves stimulation. My body is reserved and craves respect and pleasure. My heart is passionate and meaningful and deserves the same in return. My hands work hard and for that they shall be accompanied by others that wash just as clean as mine. As I stand alone, I hold no remorse, for I have nothing to lose among my solidarity. The value of gold is priceless in the realm of such an incomparable substance.
I am full.