letter #9: hunger


do not look me with the eyes that burn erotic flames to my skin, sending shivers down my spine and up the nape of my neck. i had fantasized about it not so long ago and it exhausted me, fully aware that for every hallucinated satisfaction, every projected orgasm, and every self-generated sweat, you are reality. and reality is untouchable. fantasies are merely cheap alternatives of what could have been; and their grandeur and flexibility do not, whatsoever, provide security or comfort. i beg of you, do not look at me that way. do not, for one moment, give me one reason to misunderstand you.

the heart feels what our consciousness do not. it might be the mind that decides what needs to be done but it is the body that either surrenders or restrains. i beg of you, do not let me start a war within myself; a war between the power of thoughts and the abilities of the body. let me shield you from my love behind the feathers of our friendship. do not wake the thirsts of the body that it may question the decisions of the mind, the decision we silently agreed upon.

“do you read books?” you had asked me surprisingly, barging into my work-pod with the same swiftness, surety, and confidence as you barged into my life.

i told you yes and you produced a book and tossed it to me. “it is very good.” you said. “i love it.”

and even before i turn the first page to the other side, Miguel, i know i would love it, too. because, more than anything else, you loved it and offered it to me. but i will not read it, Miguel, because i am afraid. i am afraid that for every leaf read and every page turned, i would see your face looking at me and i would start asking questions. and i do not want to ask questions this time; ignorance is bliss. ignorance is comfort; a shield from a harsh truth waiting for me to embrace it.

do not tempt me, Miguel, i beg of you. do not tease me with innocent stares for the mind is vulnerable and the body’s hungry. do not chaff me as for every unexplained gesture, the mind would fragmentize it and dissect it, prioritizing a truth it can accept, weighing a fact it can tolerate, and trashing a reality it cannot understand.

do not tempt me. for, I am weak. and in my weakness, i may find my strength.

author’s note: Love, if she may call it love this time, is a comic satire. it yearns for the body that gives it strength, and yet aches when it comes in a different package. and as I look at her now, i could see a war steadily rising. a war she had ignored and deemed unnecessary: a war between the body and the mind. a war that does not affect the boundaries outside it; nor can be ceased by the factors from within. it is her war and hers alone. he may have started it but he does not have power over it for he was solely a subject upon which the war had emerged. she holds the key to stop this madness and she knows it. but even if it might be the mind that decides what needs to be done, it is the body that either surrenders or restrains. i watched her face and found no indication of submission. and thus, came the first of the many betrayals by the body.

letter #8: realization
letter #7: denial
letter #6: gloom
letter #5: fear
letter #4: elation
letter #3: anticipation
letter #2: discovery
letter #1: birth


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