Get old enough, and your habits, your pleasures, your fixations require a push, a jab, to still feel something. The depths of perversion one must reach. Pain in the mix. The risk of embarrassment. The final washing away of the delusion that after death you’ll have to stand in judgment as the film reel of your life, in all its filth and honesty, plays before the holy judge, angelic jury, and gallery of your peers. Getting rid of the just-in-case. The safety. The you’re-being-watched. It’s all bullshit. All chains. All tendrils to keep the pliable compliant.
The greater of us – they chase their depravity and prosper from it. Don’t leave this world unsatisfied.
If this is your heart, then own it. If this is your soul, possess it in all your magnitude. Take your destiny before they smother your soul. Because they’ll fucking do it. You have to be the warrior poet. You have to be the alcoholic author. You have to be the shameless sinner. Redemption comes to those who redeem themselves.
When boredom falls upon you, let your depravities rise. Wander. Experiment. Feel out. Feel something. Your peers will salute you in private. “Thank you for being brave.”