Isn't it ironic that what we call love can diminish by the minute while the need to have physical intimacy with another human being remains at a certain level persistently?
What is love, then?
So often it is declared when we are beaten down by loneliness. Yet the saddening truth is that we have not what it takes to love another. We think we love, but in essence we need.
Need to be cared about, need to be wanted, need to be needed, need to be loved, need to be thought of, need to be touched, need to be hugged, need to be with somebody, need to be sleeping with somebody.
*****
If sex is JUST sex, and if it needn't be imbued with meaning, perhaps it would be comprehensible to have two "love" lives, separating the physical from the mental, the spiritual, the intellectual, the emotional...etc. Thus the arrangement of things becomes rather easy: For sexual needs you simply listen to your body and go for whoever makes you want to take your clothes off and just do it, while for strictly romantic needs... you make it up as you go along with any valid candidate.
It's like circumscribing a compartment in one's life only for the shagging, in which every act, however seemingly intimate, can be as mindless as one pleases.
I think I'm losing my mind, though, considering how much I have contemplated on imaginary problems of anyone having sex with anonymous human beings.
Wouldn't that be dreadful, if I lose my mind? Wouldn't every intimate act then merely be another mindless fuck?
Blimey.
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