People right now are having sex. And I’m standing here thinking about sex and I’m wondering who is worse off. The guy who’s having to listen to a girl fake it while he impregnates her, or me, standing here not worrying about procreation., because I’ve given myself back to this world.
I worry about procreation.
The world is worrying about the most basic instinct. The simplest act on the planet and the world is worrying. There are too many of us, producing far too many of us and infecting far too many of us. Spontaneous settlements appearing on the periphery of every city in the underdeveloped world with more and more people squashing themselves together until there is nowhere else to go.
I’m being backed into a corner.
Nothing left but a sea of people of all shapes, colours and sizes, attempting to move around our multi-coloured planet. All of them bumping into one another. ‘Did he just touch me?’ People moving closer and closer together, slowly duplicating themselves. ‘I want your babies.’ Until there is no more room for any of us. Until there is no more room for us to reasonably share. No more room for love. ‘I’m leaving you.’
You want to talk about love?
Love is waiting all night for someone.
Love is dancing around trying to impress them. Love is saying sorry. Love is cleaning dishes and cooking meals. Love is listening even when you don’t want to. Love is falling apart and putting it back together. Love is telling the truth. Love is phone calls at four in the morning. Love is fixing, making and creating. Love is hope of remembrance. Love is a witness for your life. Love is a moment, a time, a place. Love is a decade.
Love is everything and nothing. Love is arguments and moving in with other people. Love is pulling down houses and drowning in lakes. Love is reading self-help books and spending hours in therapy. Love is wanting someone to fucking listen to your pathetic little stories. Love is slowly bumping into other people.
Love is an accident. Love is a fucking car crash. Love is a Sexually Transmitted Infection that will eventually wipe us all out.
People are dying for need, for affection, for desire, for love.
Go ahead and ruin my day. Tell me that you don’t love me. Or that you love me too much that it is too difficult to deal with. Look into my eyes and tell me you don’t want me.
I’m waiting.
I’ve stopped counting down the days ‘til you come back. Because I know you’re not coming back anymore.
ENDS
PHILIPPA MANNION 