The perennial Christmas lights twinkle erratic on a fake tall plant in the playroom. The multi-colored dazzle gazed upon shift into mind, imprinted. Twinkle-red, twinkle-green, twinkle-blue, twinkle-white. "Gahh." The yuletide disco mixes well with the Goliath in my brain. It spins around. Does the splits. It pops back up and throws a karate kick in XXXXXXXXL bellbottoms. My head twitches from the Fever.
A sigh.
The contestation: Upon reveal of the basis of the admiration for women - I am accused to be a Creep.
Twinkle-red, bellbottom hip strut to the forefront.
What is the premise behind the look at the fairer being? Singularity. In this day there will only be one she. In this week, month, year, decade, life - there will only be one she. From the infinitely possible combinations of mind, time, embodiment there exists one, just one girl that will ever be the life that she is. Singularity. One girl in all her remarkable distinction will be the only girl that is her throughout eternity.
For this I am called a Creep.
Sigh.
Take this into consideration.
People want to see surface emotion. They'll dip their mind into the shallow end of pseudo-romanticism by way of some radio hit r&b love pop song. They will swoon. They will tear up. "Oh I wish that could be me he was singing about." They'll wholeheartedly embrace those 3 minutes and glorify it as the greatest fucking representation of Love in the world. But they can't be blamed. People in general are ever ready to accept what is gift-wrapped neat and presented to them. The pretty pattern and fancy bow is the Love they'll accept. The effort to venture into their own personal concepts of what Love actually is is washed away by the simplicity of something gift-wrapped ready.
The truth is lost. Anything deeper than your pop song is labeled unwanted.
A posing point to the sky.
For this I am called a Creep.
So to combat the unwanted do I make a return to what every girl can easily swallow? (The humiliating size of my dick notwithstanding.) I have. My own written strummy guitar sing-a-long songs play on various topics of feminine worth. Take those three minutes and smile easy. The avenue for surface paints does play a role in the continuation of that ancient Love Cry. But when all one sees is the pretty colors - that paltry palette everyone pops for - the truth behind what makes a woman a woman, what makes love Love decays, lost under layers in thick hues of naivete.
The perennial twinkle in my mind flashes. That bellbottomed Goliath dances on. With the mess of what the popular world wants discoing in my head, do I fall into step with the rest of the line? Will I sacrifice a found truth? A truth that thus far has shackled me to these persistent denouncements:
Weirdo
Stranger
Oddity
Creep
"Will you leave me alone?" The only words said by one girl with whom I found this truth in Woman as Singularity.
A sigh.
"No."
No comments:
Post a Comment