I am stuck on the idea of love. I ponder it not in the overly sentimental, femininely obsessive way that you might expect. I refuse to stay in on Saturday evenings with a box of chocolate and a stack of sappy chickflicks, ruminating despondently about love-lost. Rather, I have been examining love in the same method I approach everything else in my life; through the analytical lens of a scientist masquerading as a romantic. I dissect and scrutinize every element, every attribute, and as a result slaughtering the joy that love in its various forms, brings to me as a human.
I desire to categorize and classify, mentally filing away each relationship that exists in my limited universe. I need to understand situations in their entirety, not out of curiosity or intrigue, but rather a revolting need to control. With the goal of protection. A methodical outlook as fortification from all the sharp and jagged thoughts in my head. Cleaning house, to avoid the ambiguities and unanswered question that can fatally wound.
And yet there are still powerful mysteries, dangerous enigmas that I am utterly incapable of explaining. There is the ripping of clothing, grasping of flesh, and lascivious mashing of lips. Caresses and sweaty heat. Whispers of the god Eros in the dark. Erotic love. Interactions fueled by mindless passion. Suggestive movements and serpent tongues are his preferred form of communication, because words and emotions are too laborous.
Eros is the inexhaustible source of my emotional strife, and yet the primary fuel of the lyrical imagination. He makes his rounds, fulfilling the empty sensual desires that rule the night. Selfish and panting, his smirk is so alluring and charming it is capable of weakening the resolve of even the most guarded woman. Once compromised, she will inevitably find herself broken and bruised, discarded among the pile of those who came before her.
1 week ago