Jack Kerouac, On the Road (via whyallcaps)
“ Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life. ”
Jack Kerouac, On the Road (via whyallcaps)
I believe it to be rather unusual the level with which we distance ourselves from those who care so much about our souls. There seems to stem this undying willingness from within us to push ever so hard against those who so much as express any sign of sincerity towards our being. But such is the result of betrayal from so many ‘organisms’ - yes, organisms - who are not worthy of the right to be remotely compared to humans beings. Although humans themselves are not worthy of the title, for many of them have showcased very un-human like behaviour. Alas, this is not a philosophical essay about the heartaches experienced by the wondrous, evolving man whose sole ambition is to remedy these heartaches by retrieving ‘true’ love. On the contrary, it is this man’s ability to ravage any hope salvaged by poor humans on the very concept of love. In fact, it provides considerable joy to an otherwise broken man whose ability to love has depleted. Ah yes, queue in the violins and soundtrack of hysterical sobbing. Tantrums and dandelions encompassing one another. Just picture it - an adult sobbing and throwing a fit at the realisation that love, much like Santa, is non existent. So do yourself and humanity a favour; before you so shamefully confess that Santa is no more than a mere figment of one’s imagination, sit your child down and confess to them that love too is an invented phenomenon brought down on earth by the most evil of ‘organisms’. Only then will you have earned your right to parenthood by protecting your child from this nonsensical concept that has ravaged more households than the deadliest of storms. And should you believe this to be yet another incident of a romantic fallout, this is anything but.
This is lust - yes lust, the purest most truthful emotion of all. Yet inspite of this, it has been designated a sin for reasons that betray me - you see, it worries them to no end the possibility that two lovers could share a kiss in the darkest of hours, or even worse….coitus. The room erupts in gasps. Yes, sex; fucking; intercourse - the forbidden fruit. Go on, take a bite out of that apple, moan until you reach the stars and every little hair that covers your body comes to life. Only then, will you have understood the true meaning of love to be lacking in comparison to a phenomenon so meticulously orchestrated like lust. Believe it, with all the might you possess, believe that lust is the one and only saviour of humanity. Believe.
P.S. This piece in noway condones that you become a complete slut.
“ Pay attention to whom you share your intimate energy with. Intimacy at this level intertwines your aural energy with the aural energy of the other person. These powerful connections, regardless of how insignificant you think they are, leave spiritual debris, particularly within people who do not practice any type of cleansing, physical, emotional or otherwise. The more you interact intimately with someone, the deeper the connection and the more of their aura is intertwined with yours. ”
I wake up in the morning wondering if you still think of me as much as I do of you. I’ve read somewhere that if you dream of someone, it means they were thinking of you before they went to sleep. I dreamt of you twice, so I guess I have my answer. But I want to hear your mouth uttering those words, uttering your undying love for me; I want to hear you say “I have and always will think of you, in my happiest and darkest hours, the only constant is you” but no such words have been uttered. You mustn’t keep me waiting so long, a soul can only handle so much wearing out.
But I have no one other than myself to blame, I pushed you harder than I had ever pushed anyone; I was afraid, afraid of everything you stood for. I wonder if I had done things differently, said less of “you’re a horrible kisser” or “I only see you as a friend” would things have turned out differently. I wonder if I had reciprocated your love would you have laid your soul out as a carpet for me. I wonder if I hadn’t been so doubtful of your sincerity, would our love rival that of Hollywood’s greatest. I wonder if I hadn’t told you how much I hated you, whether you’d still love me.
You said I was contradictory and I wholeheartedly agreed; you said I was a lying, spineless human being and again, I agreed; you said I could never love, and only then did I object. If I could never love, what do you call this? You taught me to never become vulnerable, to never let anyone know just how much I’m willing to sacrifice for them but above all, you taught me to never fall in love again and to that, I send you my most sincere appreciation. From the very bottom of what’s left of my heart, thank you.
I still wonder.
“ I reread The Virgin Suicides once a year, and each time I come closer to accepting the possibility that maybe that’s what adolescence is. Not making out with Trip Fontaine under the bleachers or losing your virginity at the school dance or jumping out a bedroom window after dramatically proclaiming love to an almost perfect stranger. But that disconnect, that yearning, just waiting itself. ”
Folk singers entertain Muslims during Ramadan in Cairo, Egypt, May 1972.Photograph by Winfield Parks, National Geographic
In the darkest of corners lie your naked emotions - the ones that aim to deplete your body of its last remaining drops of sanity. It is these thoughts that awaken your demons and lay you bare, perfect for mutilation. But you plead and plead for them to set your soul free, until you realise your soul was long gone - vandalised by your last lover. For you see, they say love is for the weak but it is for the brave - for the brave, time and time again sacrifice their very souls for your breaths. These lovers rip their chests open and present their souls in an open casket, but you, laden in black cloth, mourn the very same souls that want nothing more but to rid you of yourself. To rid you of every painstaking breath you take. And now you mourn the lovers that once held your breath in high regard, only to realise they weren’t lovers but demons - the very same ones that haunt you in your most vulnerable hours. So you plead and plead again for them to set your soul free, and they do - only this time, presenting themselves with an ultimatum. So you plead once again, and they give in and present to you your scarred soul; it isn’t worth much, but it’ll do. And with it you set sail in search for another soul to prey on, in the hope that it’ll cure your soul once and for all - but again, that soul only wreaks havoc within your very bones, catapulting you into a cycle of destruction. Then the demons surface once more and plead with you to sell your dignity as a meagre price for your ravaged soul. So you trample on your dignity for an ailing soul until you’re left with nothing but an empty heart and an incubus of viral plague. So you promise your demons you’ll never love again, only to love more and more until your heart gives in and you become a heartless corpse, incapable of loving.
And then it hits you with brute like force: you are loveless.
You keep your distance, you stay away, but I’ve seen you naked.
You never really loved me, maybe you liked me, but I’ve seen you naked.
You never wanted to introduce me to your family or your so-called friends, but I’ve seen you naked.
You claim that I don’t know you enough, but I’ve seen you naked.
You want us to be just friends, but I’ve seen you naked.