Fleshy

He is a fleshy being, and it scares you. You came here in search of flesh. But a search for flesh is quest for death. We are ephemeral, gone in the blink of an eye; before the universe has taken half a breath our bodies are buried, rotten, returned to the ground like we never were. We stare at our navels and watch ourselves age — and we are passive. Time, ageing, is a passivity no freedom or action can restrain or overcome.

If he ever has someone next to him on that sofa, will he dare to touch them? The warmth he would feel would be a communion with the imminence of death. Leaving one flesh for another made him desperate: the old life is already so far away, so irretrievably damaged, irrevocably changed, that he is afraid he will never know the same happiness again.

But for this, humans have the word FAITH. Faith is the writing of a diary with your back to the night; blind trust in the safety of darkness and its patient anticipation of day.

Labels: metathought, relationships