... down a hole.

 
 

Men are forced by nature to compete.  Society has institutionalized and intellectualized this burden. 

Within society men engage in chess games of self-interest; the penultimate objective is to mate.  When one has been truly mated, all will to oppose has been crushed and control has been taken, one has been assimilated, no longer posing threat or competition to the winner. 

The winner moves one step closer to the totalitarian regime envisioned and ruled by his ego. Attempts at retaliation by a loser are irrational and will invariably result in further loss of freedom and constitution; the game is over for them, acceptance is the only rational choice. 

And no “rematch” is possible because all worthwhile stakes will have already been forfeited to the winner.  For a woman to be “mated” is just that.  For a man, it is to be castrated and restrained, killed, or having his spirit irreparable broken, anything less will prove the game inconclusive; the illusion of victory or it’s imminence is the playground of deception and the cause of the greatest reversals of fortune in human history. 

Chess games are the structured chance for gain society affords men, otherwise literally, at the throats of other men.  Sport. The dynamic matrices of wins and loses can only be tallied entirely by God, for it's his seat that's sought to be upset. 

Men must understand that chess games are played one after another, continuously.  Victory is ephemeral, only loss persists.

 
Dear April, 04/01/2009
 
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I am sorry.  I can be a sloppy, unrefined, lout--my few redeeming qualities present merely to set a stage for the grand showing of true, denatured apostrophe.

Truth be told, I am not as smart as I or anyone else thinks I am, nor as charming.  That would be impossible. 

Nevertheless, I was not attempting to use intellect nor charm to disrupt your existence in any way, despite my choice of songs.  A scoundrel I may be, but I am also a man of my word, a word I will aspire to keep as long as I'm plagued by virtue.

When I met you, the magnetism of your act as a queen-bee disguising the highest order of insecurity set off a wild-fire on the baron wasteland of my masculinity, scorching my very soul; your personality and body is the perfect vestibule for excessive lust, a poetry I can barely repress. 

Through our conversations I found myself wanting nothing more than to curl up in your head and live there forever, never tiring of the endless variety of joy it would bring me to fuck with your mind. 

I eventually,  and rather abruptly, contravened the possibility of achieving happiness in this vein by seeing you as a whore.  You see, I have at times a fanciful imagination, and sometimes it’s intricacies and self-distorting tendencies get the better of my conscious control and I am left without clue or justification. 

Even so, there are many fabulous, fun and wonderful things inside my mind, as I'm positive there are within yours.  We undoubtedly would have benefited from their synergy. 

Finding delicate and provocative people with literary flair is rare in these blathering times.  I can spot them a mile a way.  Whether you care to admit it or not, we are highly compatible, you and me.  

This letter is not a caricature of mood as writing often is, it's an attempt to be clear and defining.  I hope I've been obvious yet unobtrusive; not deferential, but candid without the quality of offensive; I may be culpable even when influenced by incompatible compounds, as I am now. 

One day I will create a caricature of what I remember of you and your manner, it would surely be a compelling dimension of the appropriate joke.

Sincerely yours,

                 Fool