Chromosomes. Science fiction. Spirituality. Abernant tunnel.
Why are deserted places spiritual?
Something died in them and not just the people.
Like the white lady, run over by a train, bringing her husband a packed lunch. Sandwiches probably. It’s a nice story because she wasn’t thinking only of herself.
And then he goes on living, and has to eat sandwiches. And think of her.
And we search for meaning.
We want to give ourselves a thrill, look death in the face, acknowledge its presence, before we go back to ignoring it.
And in this search for meaning, we have sex. A woman humping another woman’s leg. You aren’t going to pass on any chromosomes.
It really, really does feel like a malfunction.
And if you find meaning, attach it to something, we’ll, that’s the ultimate thrill isn’t it.
And you know it’s evolutionary. Intrinsically meaningless. And yet there is such beauty. Why do we recognise the beauty of these places? What is it… The darkness? The solitude?
For me, spirituality is a solitary experience, because I don’t want to feel alone. Too scary.
And anyone who says different, I call bullshit.
That is not to say that… well… that it is or isn’t true.
But it isn’t.
And within all the malfunctioning, I put a jacket on a small child, one arm, then the other. And I feel all of those things. Maternal.
And I am so angry at the world.
But I want him, I want to look after him. I want to see him smile. Because he is just a child. And if I can’t make myself smile, maybe I could make him.
And it is not his fault that he is here, as it is not my fault that I am.
Moral of the story, lock up your children.
And find a woman whose leg you can hump and forget, for that time, that…. Forget everything.