Being Humbert Humbert
Tuesday summer morning. It should be summer already but it still feels like mid spring. Seasons have been quite tardy this year. The classroom is as quiet as any classroom filled with quiet students would be, either from early morning sleepiness, the inevitable dysfunction of human bodies, or are all too emerged in their own little mental spaces, deluded by the false peacefulness which really is just flatulent to the extend of void of anything at all. The bubbles of a concrete physical reality! A Korean girl in my class always sneezes like a large fluffy spaniel, brown around the ears and the eyes, white for the rest, which I’m not sure if the image came from her long dyed brown hair, black at the roots. Round glasses and the almost, but not quite, adorably lost expression displayed behind.
The class has ended. And after an excessive amount of time has been spent on the toilet where I connected and socialized with the world within my magic box, I have now removed myself into yet another manmade shelter. It is quite sunny outside, and as welcoming as the warm fuzzy patches of grassland along the road seemed to be, I do not think I would be able to write there in the open air. I am kind of a vampire when it comes into writing, I need to be put into an isolated dungeon, but dry rather than damp, and devoid of direct sunlight. However, I do need a small lamp by my side, not for vision but as a guidance for my spirit.
I have been reading Lolita this whole morning. Humbert Humbert! I have been trying to reincarnate him into myself. It’s nothing about gender identification even though when it comes to feeling like a prey in front of girls, I do see myself as a filthy old men. It is a hard topic to say. I am already writing in the tone of Mr. Humbert! You see, there are, and always have been, so many Humbert Humberts lurking in the dark hidden behind a gentleman’s skin. Humbert Humberts aren’t necessarily all males, as myself is certainly not one, but in their traditional forms yes, they should be. And occasionally, rather rarely I hope, that a Humbert Humbert can get his hands on a nymphet (I’d say not all of them have the same standard as the original one, the fake ones get their hands on any little girls they are able to touch) and stain her with his hunger-driven ten fingers on two palms, or even with his slimy fungi covered tongue, drilling into or slipping through areas that he shouldn’t touch (not a penis though, that is a thing that I am refusing to insert here in my noble writing. That soggy pile of stinky raw meat)(the foreignness makes me want to throw up more, not embrace it, says the bitter Humbert), then even rarer, can’t say whether it’s fortunately or unfortunately, the stained girl will grow into an independent Humbert Humbert herself and starts to hunt. Herself unwilling to but compelled to feel like a Humbert and view through the narrow windows of irises that belonged to the original Humbert. A Humbert at heart indeed. Now I shall take a break from this writing and get back into my biblical Lolita to read more about the root of my desires.
It’s not about sex, as far as it seems to suggest.