She is a woman who does not know love; love is something too civilized,
being made a ritual, putting on the smiling face of ladies selling Valentine
chocolates on TV, and is as beautiful and fake as synthetic flowers that
never die in those pop anthems.
She might have, after love-making, slid from his embrace, crawled under-
neath the blanket, squatted in the silver square drawn by moon beam form outside the window, as if sixty thousand years ago, a woman prowled naked from her cave, from her man, into the milky meadow, uttering the first meaningless sound that ever signifies the existence of loneliness...
That was a time so primitive, so far from televisions and roses, that humans knew love.
She needs love, however. She knew it by the same instinct of her mother,
her grandmother, her nameless female ancestor sixty thousand years ago.
The damned intuition never dies. They whispered the inaudible sentence into their daughters' ears, while cleaning them. "The curse is that when you feel your ears itch, my daughter, you know you need to love."
Damnation like, is a burning desire to have another being, another soul,
conquer her, and to mount her. "A soul, not another flesh capable of sex."
She muttered to herself. The clamor inside the cave was from her flesh;
the long cry into the dimly lit milky meadow was utterance of her soul. She
hated that flesh, his flesh, lying there like an insurmountable barrier between her and his essence. Or does he have a soul at all? What was there, inside him, when we are busy kissing?
She's clinging to herself right now, cleaning her own ears; for mother nature is too narrow to be compared with her loneliness, and she is the only soul noticeable in an ocean of dazzling stars.
She does not love him, after all. He, whose soul's only capability is to savor
the invisible sexual allusion, raped her. It took her some time and love as bleak and tacky as a fast food restaurant in the middle of nowhere to finally realize. Love one can fashion on TV, love that comes as conveniently as one orders a meal in McDonald's.
However, when she is so hungry, whether the food is McDonald's or poison no longer matters. She needs him. She is cold and crumbling now.
(Inexplicably, this loose essay saddens me--- I suddenly feel very, very sad.)