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Making love with the past

April 27, 2013

(WARNING: The first parts are in strongly sexual language. Discretion is advised. But please do read to the end.)

I have an urge to go and make love with my past.

Yes, take my past and scrunch it up into a bundle and make violent love to it. I wanted it to hear me scream “F**k you, bitch, I’ma take you down you f**kin’ sl*t!” I want to slap its butt, brutalize it, just make it scream out loud for mercy, mistreat it. Tie it to a pole and beat it until numb, then make it blow me and make it beg me to release it, then spit into its face and treat it like a dirty rag, kick it around, slap its face over and over, and then, when I’m satisfied, pour all my rage on it like so many bucketfuls of hot j**z.

Or maybe I should be more romantic (but nonetheless still brutal) about it. I will kiss, bite, and fondle it first, all over, then, when it acquiesces to everything I do, make it do progressively more and more dirty things. At the end it will simply take in whatever I wanted it to swallow.

Though it wouldn’t hurt if I romance it the old-fashioned wedding-night way. Carry it to the door of the bedroom, watch it undress, let it watch me undress, and when we stand naked together, kiss and hold each other. I will then take it to bed, hunch over it, and enter it, progressively getting more aggressive, yet still in a loving way. And when it’s over and we are both satisfied, I will kiss its forehead and cuddle with it, and say good night and sleep.

But the past is a dead weight (literally: a weight that is dead) if I try to revive it. And I feel like making love with my past at times, very brutally (like the first instance). I do not have a relationship because I am still (even slightly) in love with my past. The past is an ex who mistreated me, but I love it and lust for it every day. But, as Kelly Clarkson says, it’s already gone. And the proper thing to do is to mourn it for a week, and then move on.

This is not just an excuse to mope for a time. But when the past is an ex, mourning takes slightly different forms from if a person is the ex you’re mourning about. Chief of these differences is remembering that the things past are all transitory things. Now, here is the paradox: exes do come and go, but the past somehow makes us into what we are now.

So the best thing is to think that what we are now is just transitory, too.

I am waiting for the clock to tick the half-hour as I type. I will be late for prayers and a set of more drinks of water. Detachment is something I ought to practice, and live with, to be at peace. So that later this night I can lay down and sleep and think about love, real love, love that cannot but give itself up for the good of someone else.

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