The Dice is Loaded from the Start

The other night, in the midst of a coughing fit, I had an epiphany. An overwheling feeling filled my entire being, and for a split second I was ready, or able to embrace death. Although this feeling had diluted considerably by morning, I remained much more comfortable with the thought of myself dying. However, I was suspicious. Suspicious of my drastic change in attitude, for prior to this 'epiphany' my outlook was quite different: I was extremely worried about dying. Paralysed by anxiety, I'd watch the 'dance of life', waiting for it to end. You see life, the thing I was so excrutiatingly afraid of losing, was being crushed by my vice like grip on it. 

 

So still suspicious, I investigated and came to the conclusion that what I experienced was not an epiphany but a sigh of relief. That night, death seemed to be the only way out. And to think that I no longer had to fear fear itself, that the unknown would become known was a relief. The only thing that would relieve me of my fear of the End was the End itself.

Now this brings me to the workings of  relationships in our society. Since that 'epiphany', I have realised why it is that I tend to avoid relationships like the plague. It is because, similar to the three dooms placed on us at birth (growing old, the deaths of loved ones, and eventually one's own death), relationships are doomed. It is the norm to have at least a couple of serious relationships before settling on 'the one', if one ever does. The couple will share themselves generously with one another, but there is always the guarantee that these shared pieces will be returned to their rightful owners by the end. The guarantee that if, or rather when they want out there is nothing to stop them. Some claim that what they feel is beyond love, it is unique, all they've ever wanted, yet they have signed the guarantee that ensures the End.

In these tenuous relationships we mix in the seriousness, magic and trust of love with the irresponsibility and temporariness of a fling. There is an unknown expiry date and the question of who will instigate it hangs on the air, becoming more and more potent as the self-destruct button becomes more and more tempting. Are we just trigger happy? Or does living, knowing that there is an end, become too much?

If it is so easy (or even necessary) to break this bond, could the previous emotion ever have been considered to be 'true love'? If yes, could it be that we've actually trained ourselves to accept that this fate is an inevitable destination on love's journey? Just as we are constantly trying to immunise ourselves against the other fates imposed on us externally. 

Perhaps it is all part of our consumer culture. We have so much choice so why choose? Let us have it all. Let us feed all our impulses, regardless of the consequences. Who needs discipline when we have capitalism? And relationships are no exception to this trend. They reflect life in western society: following the crowd not knowing why - it doesn't occur to us to think about why because we don't use our initiative unless we're told to. Brainwashed into believing that what we're doing is part of a consensus, a monotenous consensus which if questioned would be disrupted, causing the individual more trouble than its worth. No one wants to be burdened with this inconvenience. Following convention and accepting social constructs as being  part of natural life, whether we like them or not, is much more convenient. So we go on, living a life of convenience. It is a commonly held misconception that following the crowd is a natural reaction. In reality, it is a notion used to control people's behaviour. It makes people lose there abilities to distinguish right from wrong and stand up for what makes sense. Those who go with the flow are domed to always be average, to always experience the mediocre. The price for only following conventional wisdom is giving up our dreams.

So I put it to you, what is love if it follows the rules of convention, without hope, without freedom, paralysed by anxiety? 

The Toilette Scene

Too dreary. Too frumpy. Too garish. Too nice. The girl sifted through her clothing, wildly, like a Yahoo searching for diamonds. Fur, white lace, various types of check, beige cashmere and azure silk flashed through the smoky air. She sat down heavily on the vast four-poster bed with an irritable sigh and lit up her fifth cigarette of the evening. The deep inhalation and slowly rising smoke calmed her. What part did she wish to play tonight? Her audience would have a jumble of predilections and striving to adhere to them all was proving somewhat stressful. She stubbed out her cigarette and got up to look in the gold-framed mirror.

“Ugh, how ghastly!” she said into the mirror with an angry grimace.

“You know what you need, Madam?” replied the mirror, “A mask! That grimace shan’t disfigure your dull visage for long. Look here: we have powders of blue, cherry-blossom and gold, paints of crimson, coal black and ivory white, and mascaras, sprays and scents enough to please an Eastern princess.”

 

And so she began the ritual of adorning her face. And with each layer of paint, a layer of her soul seemed to fall away. She became less wraith-like by the minute, as her spirit weakened, her flesh became more prominent, more important; it was her status, her key and everything she now lived for. She looked at this new person and was pleased and the mirror cried, “Oh, My Dear! All shall love you and their eyes will shine with green envy!”

 

Now that she could bear to look upon herself without despairing, she proceeded to bedeck herself in various different garments and jewels. She wanted an attire that was unusual yet familiar, to make people feel nostalgic for something they did not quite know. She wished to invade her audience’s collective psyche like a dream.

 

From her bedroom - so like an alchemist’s chamber full of colours, potions and artifice - she emerged transformed after hours of meticulous attention to her appearance. And just before she closed the dark, oak door she heard the mirror murmur excitedly: “Bewitching!”