Author S. K. Nicholas

Sometimes I wonder if love exists, or if it’s just an organic process that serves nothing other than to keep us going in the face of extinction. Just chemicals and nothing more. Humans as animals. Slaves to the wonders we find between our legs. Flesh seduces. It captivates and blinds, but it’s all the same, more or less. Romance. Comfort. All those relationships, all those lovers in love with the notion of not being alone. Rainfall brings release, and for a while the sounds of the storm make it all better, but it never lasts long. Your body hardens my bones, and there’s no denying my mouth wants to taste all that you’ve got, yet it’s all so familiar. Bodies repeat. If it’s not you, it’s someone else, and if it’s not me, then it’s another. Each and every one of us, as disposable as dreams. Billions upon billions of insects, crawling in the dirt beneath a boiling sun. Praise God. Worship the soul. In colonies such as these, there’s no reason to believe there’s anything more than the horrors we seek in a knife fight; In the mutilation so prevalent in the twisted remains of a car crash. Look at all the bodies that lie face down riddled with bullet holes and mortality. See the lines around their eyes. See the stretch marks around your hips and know that time waits for no one. Enjoy these sensations while they last, for after they’ve gone the world will spin regardless. Cling, grab, snatch. Do all you can to save yourself from the terrible truth that after all this has finished, there will be nothing more. Think yourself not as special, or as unique, but as a transient mess of wonder. There’s no finish line, and there’s no celebratory guns as you marvel at all you’ve achieved. Just intelligent dust fucked up and drifting like a vehicle on the freeway one second from bursting into flames. That’s what we are. Vessels on the verge of destruction. Infinity in your kiss before we vanish as if we never even existed. It makes me happy, and it makes me sad. So many memories with no meaning. So many feelings that aren’t even mine. Replicated. Duplicated. Prisoners to a design from which we can never escape.