Into the Abyss

We date like we are trying on shoes, we even have a term for it now, "hooking up". There is no courtship, such concepts as commitment, dedication, and investment are antiquated. This has been going on since the 60s but it is devolving progressively from free love to free carnalism. 
But while we are escaping nihilism with chemicals, and f*cking our way into a temporary respite from the fact that we have forgot how to genuinely love. We have disconnected from the reality that the practice of breeding eventually leads to children. 
Children without fathers, children that are not wanted. Young girls that confuse affection for love.Young boys who's ONLY social interaction  is Grand Theft Auto, Call of Duty and the like.
Why are there so many shootings, why wouldn't there be? There is no love left. 
Every day I try to repair this irreparable damage, but the fire is beyond us, it is burning faster than we can stomp it out. 
Guns, Muslims, right, left, they are bandaids over the bullet hole, everyone is screaming about the symptoms and not addressing the cause. 
Just maybe we should worry about our marriage, and not just the wedding day,  or strive to be old people holding hands in the park, as opposed to bragging rights for gathering the most vagina. 
We have been "progressing" for over 50 years now, do we feel any safer, do we feel genuine love? Do we even feel free?

Nihilism

    When a man’s heart is broken it is not beautifully tragic, it doesn’t have the sweet smell of autumn leaves in decay. When a woman breaks a man’s heart somewhere in the back of her mind she thinks he will go off and build a giant house or find some extravagant way to win her back, because Nicholas Sparks and many others have told her that is what would happen. But Nicholas Sparks was a man, his admiration is first in his loins, so when his heart finally succumbs it’s based on more lofty ideals, his mind has processed why he is in love, his heart is drawn to those little giggles, little looks, the way the corner of her mouth turns when she is about to smile. When men fall they fall completely. Their marriage, their family becomes their identity; imagine a love so strong that it becomes you. The old you has withered away, and there is nothing else.

    If you don’t believe me compare the suicide rates of men vs. women, there are a lot of Romeos going to the Streets of Glory without their Juliets.

    But Nicholas sparks is an idealist, is a man. A much more keen observer of heartbreak, and its after affect on men was a woman. Emily Brontë.  The poor tortured soul of her Heathcliff, who has fallen with his loins, his mind, and his heart, is so completely consumed by his heartache that it twists within him. It spreads like invasive roots through him, and widens the cracks of his fractured ego. He is so inwardly consumed by his pain that it manifests outwardly in his thoughts, words, and deeds. He is not a demon or incubus as some scholars have theorized, demons know their purpose. He is a man spurned by his true love, lost and lashing out.

    When women meet a man like Heathcliff, a man like me, they know from the outset that he is poison, that he, I, will break a string of hearts with our brooding eyes and the blackness behind them, but they will not care, not in the short run, they will succumb, because men who have not yet suffered told them that the wounded beast can be tamed, and we will one day build them a house. 

Wuthering Trauma

When we think of ghosts, hauntings, and things that terrify us when we are alone in the dark, the things that makes us race to the light switch at the end of the hall, the things that make out hearts race or pulse quicken.  

A common theme is the poor soul who has gone through something so violent, so terrible that they cannot move on; they cannot go into the light and reach their full potential. What a terribly sad forlorn idea, it is melancholic because it is darkly beautiful; the idea of some jilted lover killing her adulterous husband and now the spirits locked together, forever in a dark dance playing out the heart ache. Over and over it plays, lost souls trying to find their way out, or home.

Every day we see this with the living as well, some poor girl having her innocence robbed too young, now plagued with eating disorders and confusing affection with love. The young boy beaten by an alcoholic mother and neglected by an absent father, and now he punches holes into the walls and his lovers. On and on it goes; the soldier whose war followed him home and is now hyper-vigilant, the cop drowning himself in whiskey every night, the exotic dancer watching herself in the mirror. These clichés are tragic, melancholic, and far too often the norm. We are haunted in our lives and we haunt after our deaths.

Trauma is such a powerful thing, it is as powerful as hate, as powerful as love, it transcends all language, culture, and even death.