An excerpt from a longer story, part II

What a black, hideous obscenity love can be; what a monstrosity, which masticates and swallows and digests in its abominable bowels our whole lives… I have felt it firsthand, if not its whole destructive power, then at least my body have been tattered with fragments from its explosion … who can flee such a thing? Through its punishing tracts we are forced to wander shackled like coal-faced slaves, given the choice to instead paint ourselves into melancholic corners with the colors of loneliness and dejection... in isolation from friend and foe, aloof from the beauty of a smile or the symphonious melody of a loved one’s laughter…

Away from the smell of human meat and of human skin which lures us into trancelike states, which we love so much, that lavender incense of genitalia – the fragrant serenades which vibrates the hairs in our nostrils and curls us like dogs under the cane! For we are merely human… and I have yet to meet the depraved genius unwilling to love! In its primeval mists, which engulfs us in the complete spectrum of human emotion that washes over us like the magnificent tsunami destroying without selection and prejudice, we dance backwards to the bleating monotony and shrill whines of its mysterious pipe… the dying and the silence of it is suffering to most of us and thus we define ourselves as love-capable beings, because the spoils of that war is not valuable enough to us… We cannot imagine for ourselves a life without it, and so we continue carrying the crushing weight of it. Man cannot stand the merest idea or even the suggestion of a loveless life, and he who can, is sick of heart, we say.

The possibility of the human being to suppress that profoundness I hold as unlikely, but there are surely people capable of just this culpability towards the human depth itself; a myriad times I have been taught and forced to learn the erratic nature of the human, which does seem to have as many fixed courses for its destructive flood as it has individual divergents straying from them! But to be the recluse of love and to wage war against the warmth of it must be the yoke crushing shoulders by the very minute and second; I cannot evoke in my thoughts a more devastating hopelessness. We condemn it as deviation and anomaly, and with the blink of an eye, we dehumanize the one unable to love; we debase the love hermit as cold of heart; indifferent to human emotion; lesser for not being as able. Sincerely, is not the want and will to love the very criterion by which we measure humanity; is it not the greatest ecumenical value? Love arises from its pitch-black repose and devours mercilessly; with hooks lodging into our naked bodies it will tear us asunder, to bits – to unrecognizable shreds of humanity – and in the end we are moist stools in its colon; we are reduced and humiliated by it, and yet we seek and continue to seek!

The hope for love dies slowly, twitching, like a diseased rat, and its very last fragment of a spark wanes cold not a single second before the irrevocability of the biological and spiritual death… It drags you down to Charybdis might... to the gluttonous maws of the depths... It has been to me, and to many of us, I must believe, what water is for the rabid, what darkness is for all the children; but what rabid can prolong their heinous disease, I tried to think, by not drinking, and what kind of child can possibly grow ripe without exploring its own darkness?

The End Commune, autumn 2014. The year of the harvest.