Body: get yourself off this chair already. What are you enjoying from this channel anyway, eh? Just a bunch of animated kids shooting fireballs at each one another. Guy, you don't need this. Besides, you're too old for this.

I sigh and stare at the screen and ignore my body's gnawing demands.

Still, it nudges my eyes to the phone on the centre table.

Body: grab it. Unlock it. You're just a few words away from where you need to be, hemmed in by clouds of ecstasy. When I refuse, it squeezes itself into my ears: pick the damn phone, man.

Mind: Don't listen to that mound of flesh, Gerald. Remember the last time you visited those X-rated sites and touched yourself? You had felt like a deflated ball, shrunken and weak, completely stripped of agency. Remember the tears that flooded your face, the hollowness in your chest? I'm sure you don't want that now.

The war becomes intense. Body and mind continue to argue, each one trying to gain relevance, and my head is a battle field haunted by a ghost of incoherent thoughts.

I don't want to do this. Part of my new year resolutions was to quit masturbation. So far, I have been doing just fine until...

I am still gazing at the screen, contorting my body in a bit to quell the gathering in my stomach. A sweet-gathering that swims into my nipples, pulls at the circuit of veins until they become taut and hungry. Until the pounding in my chest deepens with the stirring in my loins. In an instance, there's a rush of electricity through me and beads of sweat collapse all over my body. I bolt to the AC plastered on the wall only to discover it's still in full working condition. It can be.

Body: you see yourself? How can you be sweating like this when the room is so frigid? Just give in already. 

Mind: shut up, stupid flesh! Gerald, you can fight this. Don't succumb to the pressure. Yes, go and read your bible. Go now!

Few minutes later...

I am in a pool of sweat and tears. The sheet, which reeks of cum, hugs my body when I roll over. My breath lives me in gasps; and it feels like my lungs have been holding back for a long time. For a moment, it seems I cannot steady my eyes in their sockets as they range around the dimly-lit room, the cluster of bags in a space above the wardrobe. When I reach for the bible on the table beside the bed, my limbs become limp with despair and again I'm reminded of the many times I have failed God and myself for even thinking he could save me from myself; of the many times I have reached for his hand only to meet his silence—a face thick with accusations. With the storm in my head over, I stare ahead and listen to the faraway music of birds.