Symmetry breaking

Another letter to no-one:

Nobody will miss us in that time that may come after death. No-one was disposed to sing songs to us, or of us, especially us. But let it be known that I never turned my back on a pretty piece of flesh, something I could pierce to the marrow. (Incidentally, that's how you have to pierce animals to tame them.) The big thick ideas overshadowed the music of my flailing arms and my belly. I'll admit this unapologetically: I've always valued conversation with a clever man over the variegrated suppurations and tensions of sinews and muscles, even when everyone tried to inculcate me with the transcendental holiness of some wired-in neurology. Whose ideas are bigger and grander? The little greasy man in the corner who wants to build robot hive minds for social justice, the clean bowling-ball-head monk spouting his discourses on seeing the "actual nature of reality", or the (again) clean and symmetrical hedonist raking in the hedons (and incidentally quantifying them with a device resembling one of those Church of Scentology-esque readers). But I've digressed to far. I'll say this as well: what I meant by "love" and you meant by "love" were not neccessarily comaptible things. They were like our colour names; we will never know that what we name and what we experience are the same thing. If I didn't know that I loved you, how were you to know what I knew, or I to know what you knew. Was I supposed to feel it in my belly? This is not some testament to the "impossibility of modern romance" or some bullshit like that. Anyone can jockey for status and buy someone else a drink and go walking on the dance floor and fill up with X and lubricant and crysanthemums. Anyone can feel a pressing need. And it's not even a conceptual confusion. My stomach tends to give me contradictory inclinations depending on the time of day. Rest assured, though. You will most likely have children; you will call yourself happy; you may even feel it in your sinews (or belly, whatever shorthand we want to use). But don't get any ideas; don't export them; don't recommend them as stranscndence or wisdom. Because the worms don't care, and they will come for you.

Your sometime partner in the struggle,

A. D.

(Again, keep in mind that this person does not exist. This is not a love letter. This is not a suicide note. This is not a covert pick-up attempt. And this is not a pipe.)

Consider: "...you can do as you will, but you can't will as you will."