Underground Man

Last night I watched a very disturbing film rendition of Dostoevsky's 'Notes from Underground'.
It made me dream that I had given up my virginity nonchalantly, and then deeply regretted it later.
It's been a few years since I cried in a dream. Last night I cried in a dream. I was lying on the grass, and out of nowhere, I was gripped with this fear. I couldn't remember if I had slept with a certain woman. As hard as I racked my brains, I couldn't get any further than the memory that I had indeed wanted to sleep with her...and since I couldn't remember if I had or hadn't, it meant that I was a beast like the Underground Man...If I had slept with her, shouldn't I have remembered? And shouldn't I also have remembered not sleeping with her? But what if I had? It would necessarily mean that sleeping with her wasn't as remarkable or memorable as I hoped that it would be. And I was very miserable. It's all in the implications.
Anyhow, the film struck a chord. One scene was str8 out of my life. Eerily so. I wanted so badly to attach myself to the Underground Man (he has no other name), but he wasn't exactly like me. There were some flaws that he had that I don't...and they were significant. In fact, I suppose I share all of his desires. Perhaps that's the overlayer...I want love like he wants it, and I want companionship and understanding and friendship, but not quite as obsessively. I'm not cute with it...I won't pretend that I hate you when I love you. I think I'm missing the pride. I'm proud sometimes...(and who can ever get away with saying this) but I'm not always proud...and the pride I see in others boggles my mind.
Pride is a bitch...a cranky evil dog of a soul who cannot be content with forgiveness...and I'm too desperate for it.