The following is a follow-up to the "30 Stages of a Relationship." Unlike the "30 Stages," however, this posting is not only more serious, but it is also written in a poetic, philosophical manner instead of a humorous, anecdotal manner.
I'd like to begin with a quote I conjured up one day that I believe sums up the pain of rejection:
"To tell a jilted or heartbroken person that 'it'll happen one day' is like telling a starving person that one day they'll find food (while you're stuffing a turkey leg down your throat in front of them)."
What is love? The purity of all cosmic solutions...the force that clings and connects, cushions, and comforts...the antidote.
What is lust? Nature with fangs...the blight upon fruitful fields...that which buries the spirit and nurtures the flesh. The grand illusion of what is...what is that which is? Goodness? That is only half the story. Nature has a way of enrapturing and devouring its subjects: IT is good because IT is and could never not have been? No. Only under the immediate, immutable, and crystal-clear vision of emotional and sensible recognition is good TRULY good.
Lust is venerated by blind zombies, possessed and propelled forward into eternally claustrophobic states of oblivion.
Cruel irony. I wish to vaporize any and all forms of animosity that are bred under the false pretense of divinity. The battle of the sexes? Hardly! The battle of the genders? Absolutely! Poor, defenseless human vessels, indoctrinated into spiritual savagery, split apart at the seams, and pitted against one another.
Why do we relish in toxicity...joyfully frolicking in a vat of acidic attributes and proliferated, culturally-condoned stereotypes: "Men are brutish and simple, ravenous, rapacious, and animalistic"... "women are conniving and coy, complex, secretive, manipulative, hysterical, and weak"?? To defend either of these above statements with the slightest bit of conviction is despicable in every sense of the word. The former is not a basic monster. The latter is not an enigmatic charity case. Each sex possesses its own particular strengths and its only particular weaknesses.
Imagine a man covered with with scars and open sores...bright red patches of raw skin...the protective outer layer of which has been chafed away through toilsome labor. How weak and sensitive he is, a creature to be pitied. If we were to badger him and douse his wounds with citric acid, inflicting trenchant, convulsive pain upon him...how cruel would that be? Human nature is the same way: covered with open wounds, limited in its capacities. Why do we proudly parade around the weaknesses of one another and the "opposite sex" (even in jest)? Do we get a pleasure out of kicking someone when they're down? Razing, scolding, and tormenting them until they can take it no more? We do not and will never fully understand the entirety of someone else's experiences-- their joys, their torments, their struggles, their glories. Perhaps their Heaven is our Hell. Perhaps their Hell is our Heaven.
Silence is the ugliest and most corrosive form of all human expressions. Even the nastiest rants, the most destructive and repugnant words emitted from the mouths of the world's most vile dictators, don't hold a candle to the depravity of unresponsiveness. Reciprocated hatred is infinitely more bearable than unreciprocated love. Look at Levin without Kitty...Rick Blaine without Ilsa...Guinevere without Lancelot. We all know what is feels like. Rejection is like a rock slide. The heaviest stones are comprised of solid reticence.
Infatuation is like a bolt of lighting---striking us at random, infusing salient jolts of passion into our otherwise lifeless bodies, arousing our deepest desires. Infatuation possesses us. We are at its mercy. Infatuation can either ignite or extinguish a fire within us. Infatuation can alter the flow of time. Under the curse of Infatuation, we grow hungry, tired, thirsty, and weak. A single second without the person whom we desire-- the only one who can fill our stomaches, put us to sleep, quench our thirst, and enliven us--can stretch on for an eternity. The hands on a clock become self-aware. The more we stare at them, the more they torture us.
To love someone deeply is to embrace them without hesitation...to stand up in front of a roaring tidal wave without flinching, and to remain completely helpless yet perfectly dignified.
Lust is the foe of human progress, though... the coiling serpent...the Krachen...the Leviathan at the bottom of the ocean that springs up to the surface of the sea to devour the ships of diligent sailors. We must not ignore this monstrous beast. We must change it. We must tame and subdue it. We must erase its evolutionary "goodness" into TRUE goodness.
In the meanwhile though, laugh in the face of death and the brightness of love will emerge.
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