On sex and surgeries

You can always switch sadness to loathing to appear stronger and less pathetic. It depends on your personal preference. But let me tell you that I choose to loathe something because it gives me creative energy. Why would you want to be weak if you could dominate?

No matter how high the bars were set, I’ve worked hard to get here. Teaching yourself self-reliance is an essential life lesson. There is no one out there who can access your private foundations. I’m not sure if this is what they call the soul, for I have none. Or I may have decided to sell it to the devil who had promised to heal my heart, but it was more like a coin-toss. Since nothing ever happened, I decided to step up to the plate and take matters into my own hands. Waiting for a miracle might take a whole life, and you don’t want to waste time. Decision-making is one of the least acknowledged rights that we have, yet people are scared of it because they don’t know what they want.

Speaking of rights, not everyone stands up for their rights–not even on the philosophical front. When referring to the mind and the body, we face a dilemma because we have urges to which we need to respond.

Not everyone has a conscience, which means that there is no right and wrong. I never really concerned myself with this, for in my case, the urge and voice of the body have always been more dominant, particularly the adventurous travellers in my veins. Even Nietzsche put a great emphasis on the human body. It’s the body that makes us who we are. The spirit (if there is one) is nothing without a body. The soul is not life; whether it’s holy or eternally damned, it won’t ever be anything without a heart and a brain.

And there you are, preaching about your spiritual path and inner peace like there was something invisible that you can capture. What would you say if I had your heart in my bare hands?

Some people can’t use their brains, or their hearts are devoid of feelings–psychopaths. They are out there. And since I’m devoid of any identifiable emotion, I seek warmth during sex. I barely remember this warmth from when I was a child.

To get back there, I need to fix other people’s hearts. After discovering my dark energies, a wise man once said that these energies needed a playground and that I was to exhume them further until there was nothing left. However, I realized that those energies are endless, even now. Therefore the only way to accept them is to find a cure. Until then, I will continue holding other people’s hearts and succumb to this daily routine in the operating theater with the halogen lights shining upon me.

My hands are always hungry for their flesh and blood, and the more I am responsible for their well-being, the hungrier they get. Fixing their hearts ultimately makes me visualize my own open thorax on the operating table. I see my pumping heart behind the gates, and I wonder who will ever have the power to break through them and save me from misery. I’ve already done a great deal of self-therapy, but nothing has brought me any closer to my heart–like it’s not meant for me. I know what people mean with, “that person stole my heart,” and I’m sure that mine’s been stolen, too, and that this pumping organ in my chest is merely a prototype for my android self–an android that longs to be human. If that was how Zarathustra felt, then I’d decline to be an Ubermensch and sink back into the abyss of atavism. I’d dwell in the distant past where existence relied on nociceptors–the real meaning of flesh and blood.

What would we be without pain?

The day I die is when I fail to channel those negative energies. I never thought about this so vividly since the sex with Will. The way he drew his finger down my vertebral column sparked a curious chill in my body that made me understand the connection between my brain and my heart. Throughout my life, they have secretly been friends, maybe even lovers. The sex with him did serve its purpose. I could tell that he cared about my pleasure as he eagerly delved into my head to read my brain signals (typical neurosurgeons). It was intimidating and intriguing at the same time. Unlike the others, he could tell that cunnilingus does nothing for me. It’s all down to penetration–the only way they’re allowed to invade my body.

I used to repress my vaginal discharge so I wouldn’t be moist enough for good penetration. The result of that was blood. The penis would rub against my sensitive cervix and scratch open a wound. It was a self-induced blood bath, during which I lost my virginity again and again. Seeing my blood on their bodies used to thrill me. I feel the same way in the operating theater when incising the bodies of sleeping subjects. I like to think that I’m breaking down their gates when I remove some ribs to access the heart. It’s not any bigger than a human fist.

During each heart surgery, the heart is connected with the CPB that stops the heart from beating. The subject is kept alive through a machine. Since I hear no heartbeat during the surgery, I must replay the Depeche Mode song in my head. I need the certainty that the subject is alive and not a machine. That’s why we talk.

As for sex, it’s a race of hearts. The stronger a heart beats, the more love this person has to offer. I calculate the rate of all my sexual partners. Important is not their heart rate, but mine. And with Stuart, I exceeded my limit. Like Will, he concentrated on nothing but me, and he made me look into his eyes so my mind wouldn’t slip. With Stuart, however, it wasn’t just the penetration but the way our hearts competed with each other. And for the very first time, I won.

I was tired on that day, so I chose sadness.

 

 

by P-chan (c) 2012

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