Nothing - 2

By J.R.

Days pass. This is all I can think about. I wish I had taken more philosophy classes in college, especially because, by the time I get home, I’m too tired to really think.

The irony isn’t lost on me. Instead of reflecting upon itself, my brain has other plans for me. Forced orders from the top. I have to keep up with all the day-to-day grind—commute, cook dinner, rest—but all my ambition gets swallowed up by my masturbation sessions. An hour here, hour and a half there, and look, time to be responsible and go to bed.

I hate it. Sure, it feels good--the nervous excitement, the anticipation, the satisfaction that comes with a reliable, unlimited pleasure source—but I want out. Even when I’m jerking off I’m thinking, “fuck, what a waste of time.” But still, my brain pushes all the right buttons to get me to satisfy my cravings.

Out on the street, I see a pretty girl in a sundress, all fresh and dandy for Spring. My eyes focus on all the sweet spots: the fresh tan, the soft curves, the lovely smile. She probably enjoys the fun visual dance as well; it’s Spring, when our brain deprives of us melatonin, increasing our sexual appetite and discouraging us from sleep (need time for those late night trysts, right?).

I don’t want to get turned on when my brain tells me to. I enjoy it, but I want to choose it. When I’m masturbating or enjoying the view of a pretty girl, the subtext is always weighty resignation. I’m just my brain’s vessel; it plays around with my chemicals, compelling me to fulfill my evolutionary calling card, to propagate and perpetuate the species. I feel some kind of disconnect, as if for the first time, little Pinocchio starts to wonder why he keeps on dancing long after it stops being fun.

*****

What’s the feeling you get when you look at a beautiful young girl: that lightness of being, that glorious, numinous state of inner ascendancy you feel in the early throes of infatuation. But as you tell one another about the depths of your love, look into each other’s eyes—-look hard enough and maybe you’ll see a laughing brain. No matter how much I love someone, after I cum, my brain gives the order: “shut down.” Sorry honey, I love you, but I’m off to sleep. I want to stay up, and talk and confide and love, but, we know who’s in charge, right?

And do I want to talk and confide? Let’s see, what evolutionary purpose is my brain fulfilling with post-sex talking and snuggling? Maybe I’m talking and confiding to develop strong, durable emotional and physical attachments: how else to properly rear offspring? Oh brain, you’ve got all the angles. Everything I think I’m doing for my own benefit has some incidental evolutionary advantage!

Talking about durable emotional ties, maybe God can provide me with the vision and clarity and guidance to sort this all out. Oh, wait, let’s see: why do I believe in God? Oh yeah, he provides me with the greatest evolutionary benefit of all: the will to live! Ahh, that warm feeling I get invoking and contemplating the Lord!

Maybe that’s the same reason for nostalgia, too: why everybody, on their deathbed, reflects fondly upon their life. On the eve of my death I will be forced to believe, no matter what my circumstances, “hey, it wasn’t all so bad.” In the ye olde days, did the dying, at death’s doorstep and tainted by nostalgia, reaffirm the value and experiences of life and, unknowingly, encourage the rest of the tribe to continue on in the great struggle? What tricks, brain, do you have up your sleeve with that one?

I don’t care about anything else.

A light sputters out in my apartment; as the flashing light bores through my eyes, it illuminates something within me, like a flashlight discovering the fallen baby at the bottom of the well. It uncovers the truth.

I see fleshy, blood-red, tiny little flecks, suspended in the ocean like neighboring krill. I don’t know how I can make them out; even a layman like I knows, in whatever time period I’m witnessing, these little beings must have been microscopic. But still, I zoom in and get a better view. Perhaps everyone is able—-if focusing hard enough—-to channel this vision of the original biological sin.

What is it I see? Nameless sea creatures—-perhaps some long forgotten, prehistoric baleen whales—-swooping, feeding, and inhaling an inconspicuous supply of sustenance, most likely just like any other day in whatever bygone era I am witnessing. But the food supply has changed. Something new has moved in: I can see, in my fevered imagination, that some of the fleshy, blood-red, tiny flecks no longer stay down in the baleen’s belly after being consumed. No, no, no: now the little krill float upward, to ensconce themselves in protective bone, no longer in the void of the ocean—-where it never felt at home, crushed and defeated by the elements—-but to a new home.

I’m now familiar with the image. It burns through me as I sleep with the intensity of a hostage pounding on a window, hoping someone outside will come and save her.

With repeated viewings, I get the impression that some form of cilia was used to propel the little fleshly, blood-red dots on their journey from prisoner to warden. But recently, the image dissipates and quickly jump-cuts to a bloated monster, barely recognizable as some kind of eldritch brain, oversized pincers and uncountable limbs unfolding and flailing from its gray matter, moving with the type of chaos that makes men grimace and itch at the sight of an overturned beetle. This is something out of Doom, out of a million oversized arachnid movies. I know this is an illusion, an attempt to transmogrify my divined truth into a dismissible horror movie mirage. I awake as the monster’s limbs flail into overdrive, with a parting guttural roar grafted into my memory, a roar impressive enough to make me tremble at night and pray that whatever indefatigable part of my soul leading this investigation finds a way to sustain itself in the face of impending oblivion . . . .

*****

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Nothing - 2

By J.R.