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Valentine’s Day approaches again – that foolish human invention that profits by exploiting another absurd invention: “true love.” Mankind is like a never-ending human centipede – ingesting with its mouth the soiled and diluted outpourings of its own anus. And happy to do it, yes sir! Pathetic.
Still, I suppose this is as sufficient a time as any for some yearly reflection – on intimacy; on companionship; and yes, yes, okay – on romance. My dear god*, even one as cynical as I at times wants for that familiar stirring of desire’s strange brew…Hang on – is that a DEAD WORM CARCASS?!? No. Sorry, false alarm…
On romance then. My question is as follows: does any truth lie within that trite phrase scrawled by a dying human in a film who's title I've forgotten? Is "happiness only real when shared?"
No…no. NO. I REJECT THE PREMISE that I – Thelonius Stonewall Proust III – that I am not enough for myself. I do not need. The word need itself begs for something – a weakening of the proverbial heartstrings. It is the song of the siren of death. The death of the soul. Okay, that IS a dead worm carcass. I better go snatch it up before the tide comes in. L’sigh. It’s just as well. A small bite always makes me feel better. Or I should say…it always makes me feel. Perhaps afterwards I’ll go nosh on a sea star.
I am so alone.
*Though an atheist, I don’t deny myself the figure of speech
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