Irony

Half man .. half horse .. not human, not animal. The combination of the non-sentient and sentient .. the centaur reaches for his mate. The gaze in his eyes convincing me he is human; oops .. did I say he ? or should that be “it” ? once an bitter, stupid old man told me that “it” is a horrible word, though that was for a completely different reason. He, the man, was too sensitive to my referring to his cat as “it”. God .. whatever brought that up ? perhaps it’s simply that my brain is overloaded, and about to crash or shut down .. whichever is more attainable.

Any way .. back to the centaurs, I suddenly realised that past this creature and his mate, he, for lack of a better reference tool, is reaching for her; or longing for her ? any way .. I repeatedly asked myself about the sense of placing those two criss-cross creators at the entrance of one of London’s most famous landmark shopping centres, and failed to reach a conclusion. Whatever the case maybe, he and she have now seen me through one marriage and three-quarters .. and a few girlfriends on the way. What a sadistic, black comedy this fate of one’s path has .. leaving him much like the he-she-sentient-non-sentient icons in exactly the same co-ordinates on the plane of human existence: lonely, yet no alone .. married, yet unmarried .. this time round struggling to do what is compassionate, and humane, by someone who has so swiftly, and without a fight, become the core that is me since the very second he was born, at the sound of his first cry to announce to a long empty, dead world inside of me that he is here, and that he is the messenger of a compassionate God above, bringing my soul redemption .. for he is me, though to do what is right by him is tearing me apart. No matter. Is this sounding confusing yet ?! well .. I know I am damn well enough confused to the point of a total meltdown of the nuclear reactor up in my head.

The centaurs are still there. He looking at, longing for, her; she with a neutral gaze, straight into his eyes, and they dance the dance of life in the criss-cross existence of the intersection between who they are, what they have been made into and the practical reality of her being a female, nonetheless, and he being a male regardless. It seems to me that one common denominator survives all arguments across sentient species, even those on the fringe of awareness; That common denominator is the very definition of this emotion we so-call “love”, and the different shadows and impressions it casts on the two different genders, wherever gender can be identified. Simply, that glaringly obvious inability of the female to “love” in the abstract. She, the female I mean, may well be more sacrificing, or selfless, if ever that is the case, or even the magnet that is between the pieces of a relationship, but is she capable of the abstract “love” ? of the emotion of psychological, physical and intrinsic pairing between herself and her partner, to the point of being in “love” ? for no other reason than simply for the person that is he, for himself, regardless of any other pillars that people seem adamant to ascribe as to “why” you would “love” someone ?.

It is so disgustingly and hopelessly obvious that the only gender capable of such emotion is the male of the species under observation. He is able to love to the point of killing, able to self-sacrifice and ask questions later, whenever or if ever there might be a later; able to experience the abstract emotion that is “love”.

Once, in a rare moment of naked admission, a very close person told me that “men are so soft”. She had me thinking about this a life time, and for every situation that I have encountered or, to be more precise, every relationship that I have been in or had the chance to observe, I would listen to her voice loud and clear in my head, trying to come to some sort of sensible conclusion as to why she may have said that, and like magic, time and again: you see it in the female behaviour, expressions, even the way she makes passionate, crazy, uncontrollable love to you. She is the one on top, no matter where you are in every possible sense, physical, practical or emotional. She is on top. The irony of all of this, and the hopeless reality, is that no male will ever admit this and no female will ever let you extract this out of her. Not by choice, but simply by genetic programming.

QED