The unromantic deal with romance

“Forever romance” with solely one person is really hard to live up to forever, although this type of exclusiveness is highly prized and romanticized in the arts and in modern societies. Due to our intelligent and curious nature, humans are instinctively promiscuous, polygamous, and serially monogamous. The peak of infatuation/attraction, where it sickens you to even think about someone else in place of your lover, lasts about maybe two years or more before it slowly wears down– unless you have this awesome ability to keep falling in love with the same person over and over again all the time– which is possible, but super hard to do sometimes when there are billions of dudes and chicks walking around the world; each carrying different and mysterious attributes and interests.

You can fall in love/be infatuated with anything for god sakes– anything that walks, moves, doesn’t move or doesn’t even exist in our physical world. If you ever hear someone claim, “Well, I’ve loved only one person my entire life and I still love him/her” Great, clap your hands and congratulate them. It’s unrequited romance, and they’re still trying to win a heart.

This is heated infatuation here, like drugs, just another type of obsession while your body is still not-too-old, and hormones are still raging. It’s different from familial love, care, and friendship which lasts much longer, and becomes primal when you’re old. Infatuations are difficult to deal with, but they’re so natural and innate, they lead to procreation.

Maybe these rules of modern day society, these recent visions of nuclear families, are not in line with human nature. “Cheating” among couples, high divorce rates, suppression of desires, or unhappy marriages; could this phase in modern society just be another natural experiment? Our closest living relatives, primates, live in polygamous social groups and so did nomadic groups of our early human ancestors before the onset of agriculture; which brought about stability, money, property, ownership, and an even greater fear of losing them. Yet still, ~84% of humans currently live in polygamous societies (BBC).

This modern society that we’re living in is temporary, and will dissipate in a matter of time, just like the thousands of civilizations that came before us. However, the traditions and practices that we’ve currently been born into is unlikely to change too drastically over our lifetime. Nevertheless, we will keep being curious and needy from time to time, and will remain as what we really are biologically. Just Primitive. Horny. Humans.

And that’s pretty literal.


Short Story: What!?

There’s an English garden where there are sleepy flowers soaking in bright sunlight. Where the green lush of plants surround the earth. Near the garden there’s an old property made of stone foundation, and inside its old wooden door, once you unlock it with a long key, there’s she.

Rose they call her because of her rosy cheeks, but she feels like a mop because of her brittle hair. Her clothing is mixed with hues of brown and beige; there’s nothing extraordinary about her and the life she leads. Just there is the garden where beautiful and exotic flowers thrive in many different colors, attracting many different birds of exotic origins themselves. There comes a parrot, brought in from the Caribbean, who leaves his desolate birdcage to squawk sometimes. Not the most pleasing of songs he sings, but it keeps the garden alive during quiet, dull days. Often times there’s nothing to do when there’s no work in the mansion, so she sits on the grass and reads books sometimes. On days when she’s more ambitious, she pulls out her favorite fountain pen and writes. She writes nothing important, as she thinks about the parrot and the dullness of what one would believe to be a secret garden. Mostly, she writes because she likes the feel of the ink staining the crispy dry papers of her diary. Mostly, she writes to practice her cursive writing. Once in a while she’ll elongate the ends of the letter A, but she has the most fun with the tantalizing curves of the letter R. She likes to lay on her stomach on the grass and put her chin over her one hand as she writes with the other. Once in a while, she’ll lower her sleepy, heavy lashes until they’re closed and fall sleep; while the ink from the fountain pen forms a puddle of dot on her crispy dry page.

It’s not common for anyone to interfere amid this secret slumber, but the owner of the house has been doing it for days, albeit from faraway. Each time he finds her, she’s dozing instead of doing household chores. There’s rumors that she’s a hard worker but the only thing that appeared to look difficult was the way her neck twisted in her sleep. There’s been talks that she teaches interesting subjects and has much to say, but he’s never heard her talk. It’s probable that her diary reveals everything about her, and it was the duty of the owner of the household to determine if she was, in fact, a worthy employee in the household. So naturally, when she repositioned herself away from the diary, he sneaked into the garden and gently took it in his hands. With great anticipation, his eyes widened at the thought of finally figuring out this curious and mystical creature that lay before him… well, that is, to figure out whether this employee is worthy to work there, he meant, as he squinted his eyebrow. He flipped through the pages of the diary and he couldn’t squint his eyebrows furthermore with bewilderment, when he discovered that the lovely lady had spent what appeared to be half of her employment there either dozing off, or writing the letters A and R.

“Whaaat!” The parrot squawked and awoke the lady, and right there and then sprang out the diary from the gentleman’s hands and fell into the bushes.

“What?” She questioned in bafflement at the awkward sighting of events upon waking up, and

“What?” He shrugged nonchalantly with his hands behind his back.

What happened thereafter no one knows, but according to the sources, the lazy afternoons continued to remain lazy, and the secret garden, a secret.

No reason to explain why

There’s a concrete parking lot, cracked and with weed forming on the sides.
There’s a first floor classroom, crowded, cold and unfamiliar;
the people in it untrustworthy, suspicious, and dangerous. Sounds of machine carpentry on a summer day, mechanical, penetrating, uncomfortable. The smell of roadkill, toxicity, and cancer. A feeling of repetition, limbo, unwanted loneliness and fear.
Ninety degrees Fahrenheit nights, and waking up with anxiety.
Herd of delusional people. People who talk but say nothing meaningful, who live a routine lifestyle, and laugh without luster in their eyes. People who have it all together; acceptable personality, perfect family, work like a mule, and party when appropriate. People who expect the same from everyone. People and their generic, packaged, and automated versions of happiness. Feeling of distrust, loneliness, and coldness,
and there’s no reason to openly explain why.


Sunset Swim

Whiff of summer breeze
Dipping into vast, cool water
Encloses shy skin like some secret seal.
Encircling ripple in velvet motion, expanding larger and larger
Hair rolling away further… further
Plunging like a fish, letting fin disappear
Raising like dolphin over sizzling sweet air.

Falling back, playful feet flip and splatter
Scattered dew drops on lashes tingle and drench
Sky above so blue with moon laughing over
Airplane and birds greet and circle under
As the sun sets on the side, pouring into the pool of wonder.

Easy rock and lull afloat blissful surrender
Minuscule being amid an endless suspension
Free at last, and one with water
Thirst of the body, submissively quenched.

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