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They call me Truth
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Desire, an insatiable and selfish entity, always seems to seek out what it wants, whether the individual who holds the desire is committed elsewhere or not. Its music deafens the dullness of silence and penetrates the noisiness of the everyday moment. "I want it" It speaks and you predictably answer its call. "You selfish creature" you say. "Can't you see I am happy here. I am loving the love of my life." "I want it" it says. Its responses are primitive, there is no civilization within its walls, no practicality, only itself, wanting...craving. Love is only something to be sacrificed. All is sacrificed to desire. If you can convince it; if you can offer a trade or an alternative, perhaps, maybe, you can calm it long enough to live longer in your denial of its needs; you can perhaps live your life, with desire relatively calm behind it.
No, this is not about the other woman. This is about the current woman. This is about the desire you have for her, the desire you have for yourself. You want her to kiss you deeply. But she doesn't. You want her to look at you passionately, but she doesn't. You want her to grab you spontaneously and kiss you and tell you how crazy about you she is and how much she wants to be here and how she wishes there were words to say it. You want a poem, a moment of romance that transcends the everyday. A passionate instance where it does not matter what has happened; only now matters, only the whip of her hair, the depth in her eyes as she stares into yours. You want to be swept away under that immense ocean of pleasure and ecstasy, rapturous delight, then it would make all the everyday moments bearable. A simple peck on the cheek will not do. Nor will a call that says "I miss you." A hug won't do either. It needs to be huge and powerful, magical even. It needs to be something that fills desire, since it has been starving for so long. To little and Desire will remain desperate...wanting. It is an insatiable selfish creature. But she will hate you for wanting more.
You argue with Desire about this. You tell Desire that it is not realistic to expect those things, that you need to take pleasure in the predictability and monotonousness of the current relationship; that it is okay that she is not touching you or looking at you the way you do with her; it is okay that she doesn't embrace you in her arms and tell you how much you mean to her the way you do.
Finally, in a heap of desperate, sad, pathetic emotion you fall back on society's role play. It is womanly to want to be swept off your feet. You want to settle. You want to convince yourself that she is not the type and you should not expect her to be. You want so many things, but never get them; they all get lost in the tight spaces between the walls of your skull. If you could stretch one moment of this passion over an eternity then you would be satisfied. You just have to wait for that moment.
"She doesn't love you the way you love her" Desire says. "No one has loved me in that way" you say to Desire. "It would be easier if I didn't want it."
But that is love's elusive thorn. You will not get it. You will always want it. There will be many reasons why you should wait for it, why you should be understanding that it is not there. How long you can live with that determines the longevity of the relationship. You want the relationship to last. You want to love her deeply.
"Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me! Quell my pathetic desperate hunger. Satisfy Desire so it can leave me in peace" you say.
Nothing happens for a moment. The thorn pierces you and you bleed. The blood splashes over your eyes and you can't see. You open your mouth and express your desires to your lover. She becomes frustrated. You become frustrated. You drift further apart.
You continue to bleed. The blood stains your flesh and turns you black.
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