You lay coddled in her arms and she in yours. And when she tilted her chin back to expose her neck there it was, curled comfortable under her chin hanging a breeze-space below: a black hair. Half an inch long.
Imagine my disgust. To see that my woman, granted her left breast wasn’t as good as her right, drooped a little and wasn’t quite as perky as its sister, but that my woman should have an actual flaw – this was enough to make me think.
She had that hair under her chain. Like a gnat in the buttermilk. When I projected on my happiness with her in twenty years, the hair was a reminder that I could do better. This woman was not gorgeous. She was flawed. Added to her mental issues was this physical reminder. But if I could have taught myself to live with and love it, instead of being desiring and human… have you ever met an Enlightened person anyway? I’ve never been to Tibet, but I have a suspicion no one since Buddha has been perfectly happy and undesiring as an ascetic. Suppress and repress your unconscious (the wanting part of the self) to the point where you’ve convinced yourself that you’re happy? Is that even possible?
I’ve tried not wanting, and it’s just so…boring.
If variety is the spice of life won’t we want to go through as many different kinds of happiness as possible? I wanted to go to Peru and Iran and taste all kinds of different flavored pussy. Just the possibility of being with other, more attractive women was enough to make me want to destroy relative happiness once I attained it. Or maybe I sought a reason to destroy it because I was scared I’d fuck it up eventually. Or maybe it was the hair I couldn’t stand. Or the fact that she didn’t seem to know about it (and Lord knows I couldn’t tell her).
Because when we’re young and there are so many possibilities to have what we haven’t, to throw it all away on commitment is the ultimate.