a question

In the prevalent solitude of my existence, often I find myself speculating the possible against the probable. The silence of the consciousness would yield machinations beyond what my heart can easily comprehend. And often emotionality becomes a theme permeating my solitary confinement. To transcend this state, distractions aside, would entail braving what most would be reticent from. Confrontation is never one of my better traits, and an inner turmoil commands a plethora of methodologies to beset against the rational. Shifting from anxiety to fear, to loathing, to depression, to desperation.

So, if I may propound, what alarms you more?

Opening your heart again, that vulnerability that begs to be betrayed, only to be whipped once more beneath a game you prefer not to play, and to lose with such consuming gravity that the pain becomes a brand, keloidal and lasting?

Or to wake up one day devoid of any fragility? To realize that you have descended from romanticism so deep into the abyss of jaded convictions that the game is now your ally. A companion. The wingman that aids in the ploy to hunt. That no amount of rejection can ever be enough to pull you from the depths of indifference, that myopic belief that so long as objectives are met, usually to get laid, all manners of pretenses are fair game.

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The consuming sting of a cut that never bleeds, waiting and yearning that the next one will finally let it heal. When history prescribes the administering of cyclical suffering as the basis by which arduous ecstasy and ardor elevation can be achieved? That love cannot exist without the threat of dissolution, and to hope beyond reason that that very same terminus never arrives, only to wake up to it at the crack of dawn? That one cannot exist without the other? And that to love truly would mean to hurt genuinely as well?

Or to be culled from the depths of romance’s chasms into a life devoid of emotionality. When physical attraction becomes the superficial yardstick by which you measure your worth. Of how many and varied conquests can be had, with no regard to the repercussions it entails. That objectification of a human being, resulting to an objectification of oneself as well, is the only means by which a semblance of feeling can be achieved. A sensuality explosive yet barren, unbridled yet meaningless.

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Would you open a wounded spirit half-bled and half-healed to another for that promising chance that serendipity coincides with fate’s masterplan? A reality birthed from dreams cast ashore across the waves of aspirations. A desire to connect with another in a level transcending rhyme and reason, social norms and sexuality, morality and mortality. A serenity momentary yet so succulent that the nuisance of defeat is denied, and consequently ignored.

Or would you concede to the totalitarianism of the game. To subdue and repress the dreams of the heart for the urges of the loins. Where flesh becomes your canvass, drawing lines sinuous and beautiful, sublimely arresting. Convulsive and picturesque scenes across the montage of faceless bodies. Climaxing in every heave, minute deaths released. Primal and violent. Utterly senseless. When you replace your humanity, and the capacity to comprehend and emphatise for the opportunity to use, and be used.

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I would choose the former. For in it we are reminded of our humanity, and the fact that love cannot be felt without the knowledge of how it is in its absence. Not to be cynic, or worse pessimistic, for affection is, and will always be, victorious over both. Because life is fragile and too precious to waste it in the void of debauched wanton frolicking.

The flesh is strong, for we are animals still, underneath all our civilized mannerisms and attempts to assert ascension. But we are capable of much more, beyond the physiological and gustatory, the call of the loins and the lures of the lips.

We are capable of care, understanding, and compassion. That is what defines our humanity. Not logic. Not even free will. To choose to bridge that vastness between hearts and minds, in an embrace complete and fulfilling, even when we are well aware of its transitory nature.

Because hate is not the opposite of love. Indifference is.

Image from here.