Love is; Esoerotica 20160217

Love and sex are two forest roads divergent, entwined, like parabolic pathways which ideally overlap.  One soil is deeper depending on how it rained the day or three decades before, building up caked ambrosias and vernaculars of how one discusses human insides.  The caulked window pane places, the epidermal flaking assortments, the bedrooms we leave particles of ourselves, ones we want to return, flee, morn departure in the ache. 

We think about photographs of ecstasy in a mental pornography library, catalogs rapt of tea cup servings of areola, thigh stiff, a curve at the rise in a hip socket arching like a slide.  We feel it again in that canyon where sex and love start discussing terms of “What is this?”  “What are we doing here?  When is this something else, that physical gratification merging wood?  When do rivers converge and leave one gasping inside the mouth of a lover’s kiss like the only air tank?  When does a passionate tongue mean that increment of elsewhere, that glade of emotional flowering where we quake peach, lick fuzz, and drip fruits juices from ravishing to indentured?”

Love is that space of unable that allowance of vulnerability where the body becomes a portal awakening a path of questions that demands being addressed.  Love is midnight, a wolf and a human standing in a street, world alive, and inviting the animal into one’s home.  Love is trying to balance embracing the very beast that you know can rip you apart, but chooses not to.  You trust that balance because becoming a lover is to become a reciprocal being.  You are the wolf in their sheets, biting and howling and you feel as powerless as you make them feel in the incisors behind their heart.  Without the threat of loss, the wager risked, there is no love, only one being or both munching.

Love busts, forcing one to digest season, accept the unsettled, and give self-permission to close dissecting what transpired rather than expect the other to participate in closure.  We feel a chunk of humanity, an uncanny morsel identified as native rare and the point of participating in the Circus.  The audience infected with popcorn butter hand in bag to mouth churning until staring at the remnant un-popped kernels forlorn.  There is monotony to ritual, of seeing what is expected, the boxes people fit in, the puff of the kernel, digested, tasted as per usual.  This one didn’t taste that way.  One tries to understand why or how.  It hurts, simply hurts, in the gut pent forest of being a human.

We delve into what is in a given or a series of moments to tap behind the veil, that fantastical second form of being, all the surface cake batter and developing polaroid flapping in between the fingers of it all.  We feel a ghost, a broom sweep, however brief or elongated, an impactful personal connection.  Not always a linear cumulative mass, but the potential a human being shows.  A certain inexplicable way one wishes to be acknowledged, an inkling one did not become insane for having sensed, to not feel like the humanity of the situation got commercialized like a credit card swipe or some wrap-it-up thirty-minute television situational drama flashback way of living. 

Characters replaying roles, lines of do not cross, of delectable appetizers and entrees of certain death.  I know I am going to hurt you; I have seen how this plays out in my head, fair warnings to paint the picture before it paints itself.  Monogamy and commitment starvation camps process vampiric thirsts to escape, to extract a self and find bloody oxygen outside of obligation to show up in what the other thinks you are or wants you to be.  Rather be alone, even if lonely than embalmed behind the cornea of the other.

Opening up has a temporal scab nature, figuring out crossroads in a recycled serendipity taste test.  Beading love and seeing a being on a native level, to feel on par, to say, “I felt on par.”  To sit in those words, wear them.  Take the cap off the telescope, see the shrapnel, trauma, and nature; each needs to see the other first before admitting feelings.  Seeing each other the way a subject poses for a sculptor from the tendon out to the skin.  Love is allowing oneself to be witnessed.  The small and deadly poison of reading a post script “I am starting to have feelings for you.” A winless gambit, a tripped explosive, stuck with the bomb when the timer goes off.

Cars collide, hit and run, palm over eye socket, mouth attempting a cell phone.  One sped well out of range. Hope inside a bubble about the way a person makes one feel to simply talk, to feel alive around a specific human being as possible in dual appreciation, to feel on par.  Sections of an internal factory activating, interfacing in contemplation about what love is, not in confines to a specific human but to explore loving the universe through art in varied mediums and try to drink that daring cup of being present and stare the bigness and fullness of what maybe life is. 

Inspire one to the audacity to whisper the word safe.  Oozed and melted like a molted crab out of the water unsure why one even tried natural language.  Repackaging and hardening a shell.  Reputations to maintain and stories of identity we tell ourselves.  Cracking that inch of dawn and balancing the submission to a departure in a confounding pang. 

Fear of ever attempting love again, to open the room.  Sex is direct and easy.  Pre-packaged intimacy illusion, peaceful penis, vagina, skin, lovely consensual play, but the masks, the galleries of masks we build…  We begin to believe love requires delusions that are only feasible in temporal mutable seasons; permanence is a subjective cog in clockwork hearts subject to rust.  

We go down a path of barricading love, not because of pain or hurt, but because love itself becomes an illusion.  The biological opiates and tricks we engage of picking any specific person are arbitrary and circumstantial; the acrobatics to perpetuate distortions of monogamy after such summersaults even more so and often poisonous to true growth if done with blinders.  If that spirit felt was figment, a distortion of whimsy then maybe life is that quotidian and plastic and maybe life is just brain circuits firing images on a screen, this whole realm of spiritual connection of greater universe atheist bones war with the what-is-in-the-marrow.  Love becomes leukemia in such ways. 

Engaging in the entire universe becomes the only mathematical solution, because if this was created out of nothingness, a platter of tangible reality to craft art or the spark of intimacy or sex or life and that was such light graphite to lift off the page, then this Jedi-monastic distancing artistic meditative pool may be all there is, the closest truth.  Even sex giving that orgasmic act to another human being, seeing feminine shiver quake vibrating one after the other or that halo-like reverberating orgasm of releasing manhood, if that doesn’t go anywhere, meaning if there is no potential keyed locket to an infiniteness of the universe beyond that available in certain parting cloud rainbow like sparked cataclysmic intersections given rare chemistry and physics, like some biological combination humanity keeps attempting and failing and succeeding even on some base level of the random hookup to peek behind the curtain of holy shit what the hell is this, my god I must tongue new language…then what?  What point is there, just the animalistic detour, however fun and hedonistic, joyously entertaining?  Eventually the crestfallen nature of endorphins whets the stones that nests inside us all to inquire before the vibration’s bell curve flat-lines.

We meet people; we approach.  On eclipse occasion we feel that infinite window open inside our vertex, and we question, “What just happened?  Was that something more, not was that person something more, but the whole deal the pathway, the opening the room that happened in that combination in that moment is what we sense through that corridor the something more?”  We process the iterations believing and doubting and realizing the interconnected nature of all reality if we are lucky enough to muster faith in such a courageous perception.

People are conduits, not destinations.  There are no musts, no mandatories.  Sex and love, the whole bath is a numbing agent to specificity for the ecstasy of universality, but for brief windows we are challenged to see the entire universe through a specific human in a seasonal light that the stars, fate, whatever you want to call it set into one’s path not because of a confinement or an encapsulation in who the other presents, but the portal, the thoroughfare, the flowing river to the sky aspect, the wanting to show the other the rainbow bridge in one’s self on par to offer at least some season of what you were put here to create as an artist, provide, allow the other to be and create, and possibly love as a divine being, maybe to ride each other in that violet indigo stellar rain for a painted inhalation and exhalation if mutually elected or maybe love and sex are nothing. 

Maybe love was for a prism of colors hazed in liquid sunshine ephemeral flittering between a space of shifting clouds soaked in the reactive sweat of bodies in proximity.  Maybe love and sex were nothing but mist.  The lucidity maddening, not the pane of feelings, but the potential, how clear one thought one saw a human.  One feels that audacious pin prick, where whoever they are, whatever this was strikes with native amperage that jolts veins in a way one struggles to dissipate.  You feel foolish and stupid, childish, and naïve like a son looking up to the black sparkling canopy with his father and the elder saying, “No son they are just stars.  We are just skin and bones.  There is nothing more than this.”

It makes one want to give up natural language to explore and attempt to discuss that honeycomb quagmire of what that does to insides, the struggle to dismiss, like trying to cease the vibration in a sun.  The light has to starve itself out into a cold sterile place.  Drinking what being human is and that last phantasmal coffee taste of release a bit bitter, but savory long on the tongue and ultimately swallowed.