Valentine's Day

Today we celebrate with a feast to honor the martyrdom of our beloved Saint Valentine. We gorge ourselves on chocolate, candies, and cum. I, however, will not participate in this commodification. I wish it were because of some noble character trait or a true reluctance to participate in the capitalist phenomena, but it’s because I will just be alone another year.

I’ve never had a real date for Valentine’s Day. A real “Valentine”. Getting cards with cookie-cutter words of love and stuffing my backpack full of duck, rabbit, pigs, even hearts, all the cartoon characters of my childhood in the centers of loaded love symbols. In high school it evolved into exchanges with close female friends and sometimes a girl I liked. I’ve only had a real girlfriend for one Valentine’s Day though, but she was in another town and I was still alone. I was looking forward to the last holiday from the other side with her. This year she’ll see it with my once best friend.

It’s in the middle of the night that my loneliness is really felt, not on holidays like this one. Waking from dream and feeling nothing in the darkness beside you. No one’s warmth to absorb or breaths to fall asleep to. What is to be alone? I desire this connection with someone, physical and emotional. I see a beautiful girl and I want to talk to her. More accurately, I want to have sex with her. Do I relish my mind with images of a romantic dinner, walking on the beach, or a sappy movie? No, I imagine her bent and begging. I wonder what she sounds like, what she moans like, she tastes like. I have a drive, an impulse, a response to stimuli. The more intense the stimuli, the greater the response. This works for both sexes, as I consistently see girls fawning and feigning over a title, or money, or power- just as men salivate over thighs or breasts. My desire to make her laugh, to cook for, to protect are just to consummate my love.

So it seems to be that I need to acquire that which is desirable- a title, money, or power. I know what I want, but why do I want it? What motivates this? My entire purpose to accumulate power and wealth so that I can impress a better looking woman?

My desire to ejaculate is the motivation of my DNA to propagate. I often ask myself why I want to do a certain thing. I feel compelled by society, culture, some unknown hand to go out, drink, and try to find a slut to use. I feel like I have to be social, to be involved, to see people. I also feel the desire to learn. To read, to watch films, to learn about subjects, to see and delve and revise and critique. To triumph and topple, destroy and demolish, crush and kill. All of these things are just motivations of my DNA to better myself and ultimately appear more desirable to a female.

It is not as shallow as simply being impulsed to party and fuck that makes me a slave to a chemical staircase; it is that any desire to improve is merely a desire to appear better for a female. If I radically decided to become celibate for the rest of my life, to avoid sex and think of nothing but philosophy, God or the devil in mankind, it would only be so that I could appear to be more resilient to my urges and more steadfast for my convictions. It would make me appear better and thus be for the purpose of finding a better female. If I wanted to avoid females, it would only be so that I could find a better female. I see no way out of this cycle.

I’m damned if I do; fucked if I don’t. I know my motivations, my desires to do anything are ultimately not my own, so my life is not my own. Anything I want to do or feel, any real emotion, real desire, real want or need or thought or action or concept or culmination or breakthrough or eureka is just to find a better mate. It’s not to give value to my own life. They are not to benefit anyone. It leads me to pollinate, spread, inject, infect with seed. It is the hardwired whisper. We are no different than a coconut tree or sea urchin or zebra. We have a purpose to spread our genes, and to seek improving features, through mutation or self-help books, so that we can spread our genes better and spread better genes. It is all we have and all we are. We are machines at heart, and serve it rightly so.

I’m left with absolutely nothing. In the face of death, or the thought of not existing, I have nothing to offer myself. Combating loneliness is impossible. I can’t console or cope. I am nothing but a slave with no heart or mind of my own. I have no soul. Where is my assurance against death? While my aunts believe in God, that some mighty Father in the Sky will give them life everlasting, I believe in absolute nothingness. It is not to say I don’t believe in anything. I believe in nothing. We will not exist when we die. It will be as good as if we did not exist. Our bodies will rot in the ground and plump worms will burrow into our brains. And eventually, the universe will be destroyed, our sun will burn out, we will ravage our planet with pollution and war and disease. The bottom line is that the end of the line is non-existence. No matter how high we build our towers, and how long we get to live, we will inevitably die, and we will be grinded into the sands of time.

The sun will set and the light will march across my room and over my bed, under my blinds and up to the moon, leaving me to swim in the ocean midnight. No matter how hard I try to stay awake, my eyes will still close. The false sense of permanence, a monument that will stand through time, this is what my nucleic acids try to build. Erecting a lasting structure on a microscopic scale. I need an illusion. I want to hear a woman’s falsetto. I want to feel the energy between our clasped hands. I want to fall asleep with someone.