So where was God when Satan made "the other"?
When I say the other, I mean it in the Sufi way, as in the beloved, the catalyst for your spiritual evolution - whether you like it or not.
Oh yes, there are those first few months of surprised bliss when because of the beloved you approximate the angel you'd like to be. But then there are those years and years when she drives you down into the verboten layers of your soul to detonate those bits of unexploded dynamite that keep you from being the angel you actually are.
Rage, jealousy, confusion. Let's drag them out before the holy microscope and see what they hide. The beloved takes you there and puts your nose in it.
Okay, I accept that I could improve, that I could be better. But couldn't the process be a little easier? Might I suggest the inspiring image of moist clay soothingly stroked into shape, gently smoothed over into a more perfect form.
But, no, it's more like a fucking jackhammer chipping away at my heart. I'm not alone. Very few escape the blows.
For better or worse, everyone seems to need the other. If not to be with, then to be not with.
We all want to link up with the other, lock eyes with the other, lick out the other's secret parts, taste the sweat and sip the tears of the other.
I am fucking sick about the other. I want the other so bad, I am a cringing junky, a whining baby, a despicable pleader. I would not want to have on TV all the things I've said to get the other, or to get at the other in my mad quest for revenge on her whose secrets my wheedling has let me know so well.
So what are you to do when you've taken the other for granted so long, and now she won't fuck you?
You want her, but she finds you wanting. It's like being stripped of atmosphere.
It usually happens just as she's found some new scent - an aroma that homes in and won't let go.
What do you do? Just hang about and learn to beg? Squeeze out a few more tears and hang around? The last thing you're gonna do is get used to it, so you fall to yer fuckin' knees.
What else can I do? I want to rage, I want to scream, but I don't want to annoy her. I don't want to whittle down any further that small chance that she might fuck me again one day.
Till then, I need to get into the mystical aspects of the jackhammer, know its blow like the glance of some deity seeing what's wrong in me. Feel the places love strikes me like lightning, and burn to change.
Oh, look what I'm becoming. Yeah, I'm ever more horny, lonely and desperate, and now I'm scrambling for some little straw of power to hold up for a moment to the big burn of it all. I'm jacking off like a jackhammer, trying to make myself invulnerable.
Distance - that's the trick.
If I could just leave. But I can't.
The only cure, the only strategy is to find some other other. Or stay - which is what I'll fucking do. Because there is no other other like the other.