Love's Quandary

A few years ago I decided to not be human anymore. Of course, one could scoff. As if you could ever do that.

But of all my interactions I always sense that vague desperation whether in me or across the aisle: this needing to prove. Prove that you’re definitely human. On the right team. Maybe if you did you’d claim some benefits.

Did you manage it yet?

Did you share enough of yourself and your story to make the cut?

There’s this false assumption that the more you “humanize” your presentation so falls in line the anxiety to fade, belonging to commence. That certain hearth always, always so eluded. Our hidden motive: find the love perpetually missed.

So many brushes and pigments one needs to drag across pavements or profiles and social fragments. To reclaim humanity. Yet that chalk wrapped about your hands seems so charred.

Maybe if one seems human enough so it’ll stop being so tortuous. To eventually dissipate this urge to destroy everything. But, alas, pass a certain age so strength is what he must rely on. Sometimes that requires discarding any prior lofty emotions until dead inside.

With the first few jobs and failed relationships, shuffled along a slow civil exit as the now perpetual criminal, so latches on the indifference. Learning that his value, if he’d ever want to interface with others, comes from resources, status and stability. After he accepts that and looks about, maybe there’s nothing else to say.

And if he prescribes to the more “noble” model of reality where all he has to do in this lifespan is procreate and hand off some savings, he can finally write off the need for any feelings at all. This is all he has to do, and then he passes it on, and now he’ll stop thinking.

The thinking doesn’t stop though. Depending on how much of his inner carcass beats shredded it’ll mutate into unbearable whispers, sinister. Sometimes the skyline will seem the most beautiful, to him, if ensconced in smoke and flame. And then he thinks about all of the ways he got reconfigured, egged-on through all the propaganda agitators.

It’s a free-for-all with his intestines dragging along; nanobots to parasites homing a blood brain barrier. Dragging our hands along the golden Ohioan plains we could wonder how many slices of loaf we’ll share before the end. One shall look back upon the days they grazed about smiling.

Though in the Silence’s dawn, when the rhythm of the heart slows enough, he’ll realize he cannot seek to be loved. Staring at our horizon’s edge he knows he’s been completely evicted from anything other than his function.

But this is our test in Love’s quandary, each man of stone waiting: entirely allowed, perhaps the one, to give the love.

Sure, strength is all to rely on, stonefaced if need be. Though the day comes where maybe he needs not love. He gives love. He’s the one, in his Father’s emulation, in his void, to bestow purpose and meaning. Collect pieces and see the fields splintered by each serf sure and certain, contently working.

For years he sought it, and he won’t find it. Thus he’ll create it. It takes an uncomfortable amount of courage and reflection, breaking walls and subconscious.

But that’s your choice to take: to love in a seemingly loveless, indifferent world. After all, it’s probably the only way you’ll ever see love again.

To not only lovingly look upon the wasteland but, in the process, become the very thing so missed. Let it all play freely and accept it as is, entirely.

To become Love itself.

What else?