The whole of your life you’ve been searching for something that you can’t quite put your finger on… You’ve felt it calling out to you at the most desolate, profound, and arbitrary of moments of your ‘life’, like whilst you’re queuing for your Frappuccino and you gain a fleeting but ineffable sense of the falsity of the environment that you’ve found yourself in; you feel it on the train when you gaze out of the window and the sun sets over some musty field upon another dusty day of the same old life.
Sometimes the stench of the rain on the pavement sends your heart ajitter; sometimes you gaze into the eyes of some stranger in the high street, watch them melt into masses, just like all this time between your fingers, never to be seen again; that one potent moment sucked dry of all meaning, as you fade back into the hum of your head, and the terrestrial grey of another lousy day filled with activity, but never any of the action that adds either levity, lightness, or lubrication to the realisation of your ‘soul’.
You uncover or rediscover ‘sex’ and begin to treat it as either a commodity or a conduit. If you still believe that you’re your thoughts or your body alone, then you become caught up and conflicted in the animal impulse… You work out your personality defects through animal motion – fucking or getting fucked in every hole, putting things in your mouth, screaming out into the night and over and beyond the day, as you go round to each other’s houses and fuck on whatever can or can’t carry your body weight.
You spank. You nibble. You roar as you eject your soul upon the belly or the back of another. Speaking dirty to each other, one of you pins the other down; you bite and you scratch, finally uttering the words, lamentations, and proclamations that you’d never have the confidence to say in the ‘real’ world – ‘You’re my slut’, ‘I’ll love you forever’, ‘Take it baby, it’s yours’ –and as the passion increases and the infatuation fills you and as the breath of the whole world flows through you, you feel like you can finally breathe – you’ve found ‘The One’ and all of what came and went before makes, perfect, illuminated ‘sense’.
Home is where the heart is and you wear yours on your sleeve, balls deep in the navel of the world, steaming up the windows and glistening in the night as your blood pumps your head into your heels and the whole broken mirror of your insane life smiles back at you with its crystal symmetry.
You remember to forget that you used to feel the emptiness of being lost and ‘fucked up’; you forget, for a few brief moments of your eternity, that you were seeking something, and you tell yourself only that this is it, you’ve ‘arrived’.
All those intellectual ideas and limiting beliefs that you carried about yourself and the world have been exposed for the lies that they were: How can you be worthless when somebody’s smoking your bone? How can you be unneeded with a cock in your arse or a thumb in your mouth?
Here before you, in the coiled web of mortal flesh that stands naked at your feet, personified in the ravished mass of hair and flesh in your messed up sheets, breathing belly to belly with you as you pant and cling in the morning sunlight, is the answer to all of your problems.
The remedy to your ‘fucked-up-ness’ has been sent to you by the heavens and because this ‘remedy’ is just as perfect, imperfect or fucked up as you perceive yourself to be, but in complementary ways – the worldly polish to your diamond ‘soul’ – you’re able to project and reflect and detect that all your needs have finally been met – whatever was once broken within you isn’t necessarily fixed, but nor is it anything to worry about. Released at last, you begin again to seek something to enslave you.
Keep fucking. Every so often you escape yourself and each other and transcend time, space, and whatever else is holding you back. The world turns, the Earth burns, and the room breathes in on itself and you confuse these fleeting moments of transcendence for the answers to your call.
On the good days you both fuck to find ‘God’; on the bad days, one of you fucks to escape him whilst the other keeps seeking; on the really bad days, nobody is really looking for anything, but unfortunately nobody finds anything either.
You fuck in new and exotic locations, watch the sun go down through the steamed up windows of shimmering cities; one of you dominates the other in the hotel shower; the other opens up on the sink; you stand in new lines in new places for the same old Frappucinos together; gaze out of different train windows to nameless stations, hold hands in the rain and note the glare of those in the crowded highstreets that haven’t found such purpose yet – those who have had too little or too much life breathed into or upon them – all serving to alight the flickering candle of indelicate but oh so exciting temptation, as the devil in your pants calls out to the angel in your head and signs you both up to the suicide pact.
Perhaps the solution to that encroaching emptiness hides somewhere within the masses; perhaps you’ll be filled in the toilets or on the dancefloor at the nightclub; perhaps you will feel alive again through the acquaintance of an acquaintance, hen night strippers, or internet friends, as the new wine of new ‘love’ slides back into your DMs and your life folds back in on itself so it can open up again.
Somebody catches your eye, somebody sets your loins ablaze, you begin to wonder about possibilities and your laundry list of life expectations and so that ‘fucked-up-ness’ that attracted you to the eyes of your current lover in the first place begins to push at your buttons, but they’re the wrong ones this time and you feel like it’s time to move on, because the whole of your life you’ve been searching for something that you can’t quite put your finger on…