Choices

Life is never win-win, is it.

Staring at the corkboard, dimming lights overhead, just pondering nothing. At least nothing yet. Nothing in the sense that it’s nothing that really exists and nothing that could really be played out in reality. Nothing in the sense that it’s ambivalence of something intangible, nothing you can touch, smell or see (unless you’re hallucinating), but it’s certainly something you can feel. Nothing as in nothing important, and nothing to worry about.

Your consciousness fades in and out while you stare listlessly at nothing but a corkboard. Nothing but a fucking corkboard and a dimming light. And perhaps your body that aches to be bruised, to be broken, or to be eviscerated by the hands of a sadist. Something that doesn’t seem so sterile. Quick and dirty, like many say.

You dream of never-ending forests, the sweet scent of junipers and pines and the acres of animal carcass left abandoned by spirits. There doesn’t need to be water, but the sound of water is enough to establish your sanity. Bird and their mating calls. Soil as fertile and viable – surely we’d address it as a “Her”. The whistling of gentle winds that asphyxiate you for only a few minutes. If only a few minutes. This sounds like the pinnacle of peace to any simpleton, but little does anyone know that this is merely the form of Chaos.

The virility that lives under foliage is astonishing. To think that such a panorama, so eloquently shown in books that emphasize Zen, would be filled with raunch and taint is just asking to adulterate devouts and scholars alike. Mother Nature is not as austere as one might think. In fact, the secrets we hold so deeply within each other is so disgustingly impure, it’d baffle any “entertainer”, so to speak.

Flowers of different colours. Trees unusually out of place, like cherry blossoms and honeysuckles. Trillia, daisies, impatiens and hydrangeas, all living in some strange set of foliage that hides all the raunch and dispositions of humanity and lust. We ought to be ashamed of ourselves, but it runs its course in our blood – it’s inevitable to think about intercourse. It must be our curse upon reincarnation. Or whatever the fuck you want to believe.

We call it a rush of hormones. A rush of emotions. A need to touch. A need to be intimate. Our needs. A need. Why is it a need? It’s not a part of any self biological viability, yet we “need” it in our psychological and sociological sadism. It makes me wonder what would have happened if biblical folklore and fibbery hadn’t dissuaded some of our said “rituals”. Perhaps we would be less frustrated than we are. Monogamy makes sense economically, but what programmed us to believe that polygamy is a heart-wrenching, indecent, and ascerbic practice of humanity? Does this not go against the very essence of being an animal? (Conveniently, we seem to forget we, too, are animals.)

It’s a topic on everyone’s minds once the hormones kick in. Yep, the HPA axis with your LH and FSH and aromatase shit. It’s all that stuff that keeps running through your blood, making you want something you probably wouldn’t have wanted to begin with. How phenomenal it would be to find a pharmaceutical, a herb, or anything to rid of these temptations without needing anything permanent. After all, some of us do want offspring at some point in time, but simply don’t want matrimony to be occluded by the need to fuck someone. Or something, when you become that sorely deprived.

Emotional hardships. All linked to this concept to reproduce.

Damn Mother Nature and her engineering. It’s one part of us we cannot properly control, because once we try to, we begin compensating in other ways.

It’s what makes us that disgusting, yet that beautiful at the same time. I guess it depends on what phase of climax you’re speaking on behalf of – before, or after.