Lust: The Mysterious Sister of Love

(Warning: In no way is this grammatically correct. The format is intentional.)

It started at the roots. Pads of feet still soft, feeling the abrasive concrete and mimicking the groves of the floor.

Feet small and sweet.

Ankles fragile, delicate like a stem to a daisy. Something about that fragility necessitates devotion to protect.

Climbing up the calves, with tight muscle sticking to the bones like gum. Smooth hairless legs. A cool breeze brushed against them as they responded with goose bumps. Tips of hair sprung from the newly prickled skin.

The knees, as wobbly as they were, seemed so serious. The touch right above the joint. Below it, the feeling wasn’t personal. But up to the thigh, and the slightest vibration sent sparks around the entire area.

Higher climbing up to the hip bones, slightly peaking through as to imply that the structure was always the same regardless of outer form.

To the curve of the waist, a line stretching up the back as the spine seemed to sway in such an effortless beauty.

The neck was again so fragile. A hand grasped around it could lift the body like a bag of groceries. Its delicacy contrasted with thick cascading hair. Everything so soft.

In the eyes you fall. Into a growing pupil. Into a tumultuous thought. Thoughts almost tangible. Pulling and pushing you through white caps and under the blue waves of the storm. So vast was this ocean that it could not even comprehend what creatures lay undisturbed at present time in its deepest abyss.

This was not beauty though!

Beauty is that which lasts.

This was exhilaration. (Throat tightening)

As lust is to love.

This form cannot last– it is not beautiful. No, this emotion stemmed far from any immortality– the evanescence of youth.

This tangle of fibers and strings and tendons and muscles entangling into a perfect knot. A great mess. A cigarette burning at both ends. This was youth and this exhilaration came from its brevity (for no one knew their youth hidden behind their own smoke till it was passed on).

No, it was not beautiful! Though society seems to force one to believe it so…

It is the pumping puddles of blood pulsating in the neck. It was life that made my heart beat faster– the revelation of how short youth truly is. All interpreted for beauty.

But this was Lust, the mysterious sister of Love. Love was lasting, but this Lust was fleeting. And if that which is lasting is beautiful. And if that which is fleeting is life, then we must conclude two truths with equivalent importance:

First, that love was beauty.

Second, that lust was life.

These are the motivations and meaning of our existence.