WARNING: This post is not for the weak of heart. Yes, pun intended.
Today I stand here before you, behind a screen, to talk bout a sticky subject, one that is frowned upon by many in this age of manic modernity of overstuffed calendars and numbing consumerism.
I give you, drum roll, human intimacy.
It is sad, but cliche-ishly true, how we’ve come to an era where we fill each void with stuff. We’ve grown fond of the preference to suffocate ourselves in stuffs and stuffies, things we want because “damn it, I deserve it”, and thingies we demand because “goddamnit, I’m worth it”.
I’m standing here as a convict of this mind-numbing shying-away from human emotion, from even the faintest idea of feeling, of being in touch with the heart. I come to you from that little dark basement where we lock up all the words unspoken.
DISCLAIMER: For the record, the last two words you read are borrowed from an art exhibition I visited last night where one collection said “Words Unspoken”.
I must admit, at the “Words Unspoken”, I stopped like an immovable wall and held myself in place trying to disconnect from the discomfort this phrase brought upon me, from the beckoning that was stirred inside and all the Chaos it unleashed.
I later watched “Chaos Theory”, made things worse.
Staring my own discomfort in the face, I realized that we are all leading lives of this vaguely numbing discomfort. We are all guilty of the same shying-away, and of the fact that we are so in love with our clean bill of health as we try our hardest to stay clear from this modern leprosy.
You know, valiant reader, what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the survival mode which gets triggered when people move from the warm hemisphere to the cold one on this planet of ours. And so, to sustain life, we find ourselves in need to put on extra clothes, eat more fat and drink more alcohol. It is, of course, inevitable for our survival mechanism to kick in after so many centuries of theoretical evolution. It is only the fittest who survive anyway.
But I digress..
I don’t think Darwin ever foresaw this shift in paradigm, where your survival defense mechanism would eventually take the horse to drink from the stagnant lake of consumerism. That in order to be perceived as “fit”, you’d have to un-“mushy” and un-“corny” yourself up, to shut down all that which makes you human for a chance to be accepted and hopefully survive and reserve a seat for your DNA in the inner circle of the fittest. In the midst of all this emotionless Antarctica we’ve meticulously created, our fingers reach out to the warm touch of our credit cards.
Not trying to get all political here with me throwing consumerism under the bus and all, but remind me again please, when was it that we’ve silently, and unanimously, decided to dub intimacy and affection the Modern Leprosy? To apologetically nod, hang a bell around our necks and walk around with it if, god forbid, we “publicly display affection” to a fellow homosapien? When was it that we’ve decided to use Newspeak and reduce all that which makes us human to the phrase “touchy feely”. When did we decide to hurl the Noble Savage into a cage and put him on display for scrutiny and criticism?
Most importantly, why?
Are we afraid of getting hurt? Shunned out? Worse, accepted?
I’m not here to write about the “Ten Ways to Get in Touch with Your Noble Savage”, nor the “Modern Leprosy: The Grand Deceit”. I am here to invite you to shed with me all these bells we’ve placed around our necks and walk free of misconceptions. To hell with the clear bill of health, I hereby declare the return of decadence.
The opinions, beliefs and viewpoints expressed in this article belong solely to the author, and do not necessarily reflect or represent those of Delirium Station.