Timothy

Jack's Twisted Kingdom
2006-10-11 11:50:20 (UTC)

vicarious living

tonight, as I was sitting on the skytrain home, I saw two
people sitting and being particularly, very affectionate to
each other.

And then I noticed a curious thing. the boy, who could not
have been more than 19, was nearly weaping. And the girl,
who was probably the same age, was wiping a tear from her
eye, and then kissed him, vigorously, forehead, nose, closed
eyelids, and finally his lips, which he seemed to eat away
at like a starved cat.

I couldn't help but smile, couldn't help but notice her. She
was perhaps, not the most desirable of girls, but she was
pretty in her own way, pretty enough for my liking anyways.
But the thing that most set her apart, was her ferocious
passion, that could be seen weaping from every pore on her
body, her skin was smooth and yet glistened in the glow of
the lights on the train.

And still, this boy was near weaping, and I couldn't help
but feel these pangs in my stomach, wondering what could so
distract him from such a girl as the one who was carressing
his hair, slinging her arms over his shoulders and holding
his head to her breast, all the while kissing him with such
passionate display of affection that even I, half a car away
was even aroused by.

I then remembered being that boy, and being kissed by that
girl, even though mine was years ago, I suddenly wanted to
take the boys head and smash it into the wall, to knock some
sense into him. There, right there before him was a girl
who's sensuality betrayed naught but the most truest form of
passion, and he sat weaping away like a wounded animal, even
while being held up by her soft embrace.

You cannot be trained for such displays of passion, nor
sensuality, either you are, or you are not. You are born
with such limiteless potential for such beauty or you lock
it away deep inside. So few girls, and women I've ever dated
were able to unlock it. It's something you feel, something
you exude. I feel sorry for the ones who never explore that
side of themselves. We men, as animals, we are the ones
to grunt, growl and paw over the women in our lives that we
must be taught to weild that gift that is given to us. Women
must show us the sides of themselves so that we may use that
and give them such the pleasures they demand...

There is much truth in beauty, fleeting as it is.

Perfection is a lie.

Passion is the only measure.