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[formeandmealone]

I like the idea of something that ive written existing in the public sphere but also dont read this im just ranting into the void. dont ruin the illusion of the void

I know love to not be a mere transaction. I know it to rise from the depths of one’s chest. The most cautious of men are turned fools and the most obstinate of women become the softest clay. The psychoanalyst can reduce the occurrence of love to the mere product of circumstance; time and place interacting with the rigid needs of the human spirit. I too see the merit in this argument, in pulling apart the human to show him how much of a creature he truly is. Intuitively, however, I reject the notion of mechanical love. Far too many factors of the human condition exist to say with any reasonable confidence that love should happen. Regardless, I am faced with the conclusion I made long ago.

    “We are destined to love.”

    In all my seeking of virtue and truth, the writings of the scholars and the conversations of the working class all speak of love as the grand arbiter. I do not deny the presence of love in my life. Familial, communal, and otherwise, I could break these connections down and show how mechanical they may be. Whether born by duty, fear of being alone, a sense of superiority, or a myriad of reasons valid or invalid, I do not deny how strongly I feel love.

    Why then am I plagued with the final hurdle of romantic love? People have asked me and I have long considered “if I liked girls.” This question is short lived and only reoccurs in the presence of the question on why I remain alone. This question visits so often, that its frequency answers the former inquiry. How I long to be held. How I long to fall asleep to the soft sounds of breathing beside me. How the imagined scent of a forehead of hair pressed longingly into my cheek plagues my conscious moments. I am lost in the stupor of adolescent youth. My throat catches at the longing for lips plunged against mine. The sweet taste of another invading my senses. Sex. Of sex. Of passion so tender that I might never live without it again. Of exploration and freedom that can only be expressed in sensuality with another. To wake up with nothing between us, with buttock and breast and collarbone and the nape of the neck belonging to both as much as they belong to one.

How I long to see in someone the goodness of a violent world. Someone who makes me believe that there is such a thing as a good person. I want to be with someone who lives in the same world that I do and lives to spite it. 

But all that exist are mechanical people. All that I see are humans in their irredeemable horror. Humans lost in the infinite. Lost in the finite. All I see is absurdity. Ambiguity. Nihilism. Humans seeking their immortality project.

Much as I try otherwise, I can’t help but feel that I can no longer rely on the hunger pangs of my heart to find solace in someone. My heart is too greedy. Too melancholy. Too cynical.

What left have I but the mechanical view on love. I have had ample opportunity to abandon reason in pursuit of romantic love, and so the cynicism of my heart calls to the aid of the cynicism in my mind. What recourse do I have, save for love as a transaction? What can I offer as harvest from my time alone? All I can offer is a broken man. All I can show them is the vision of one who longed to disappear. What does it say when the only two longings one has is the longing to disappear, and the longing to stop feeling this way? The desire to have more desires, and the desire to have none at all?