THE IMMORTALITY OF MAN
THE IMMORTALITY OF MAN
I fear the taste of an ice-cold beer. The lips of the brown bottle are as seductive as those of an African girl: its form is pleasing and its pleasures deep, cruising through one’s body and into the depths of his soul. Very few things are as enchanting and as intimate as draining its ambrosial waters and feeling its sensual taste lingering on your tongue. Every drop is like a thousand kisses, each sweeter than any wife can give! And so, countless husbands often leave their randy wives at home every fine afternoon to dote upon their secret liquid lover, whose pleasures always overflow as long as they possess some coin.
And so before I grew my first single beard, I chose to take my father’s abstemious path, striving to live under the strict instruct of virtue. I decided to choose my acquaintances with strict precision, selecting only the finest company for myself, preferring no company at all to the company of some, for some friends are like stains: the longer they last, the harder they are to remove. Long walks on paths that I have never followed before became my select sport. And just as the beautiful game of chess, the menacing rays of the sun scintillating through the scattered foliage above my head wove an intricate pattern before me, unveiling profound beauty in nature that freed my mind and soothed my spirit.
But sometimes my mind wanders too far, to places where even the bravest of men fear to go: within the dark abyss of the wretched human soul. Close your eyes and tell me, does your mind’s light suffice to see into your soul? Do you see a brilliant radiance or the unnerving darkness? Men with eyes can scarcely their own true nature see, but men born blind can see that which hides deep within our hearts, and within their own. Accustomed to their dark world, their thoughts are the only rays of light, imagination is their only source of colour, and their lucent souls are their only evidence of Being…envying only the deaf, who in addition, enjoy sweetness of songs unheard, an uninterrupted silence and melancholy—the music of God.
When I first loved, nothing drew me closer to her than her innocence. The textures of a character more virtuous than mine, a charm more pleasant, and a grace sublime. I felt her essence wherever she passed, longing for her to pass again just so I could place my foot on the spot where her’s had briefly lain. Forget mortal lies, only the broken hearts know that love is real, and after I lost her by briefly sating my fleeting pleasures in the arms of another woman, I realised that all of us are tethered to the ingrained imperfections and frailties of our natures.
The memory of my dying father lingers too in that dark abyss: the sharp stench of death in the room, the tormenting silence and the flickering fire in his sunken eyes as a few fleeting words shook his cracked lips, the agony in his bones curving his countenance into a grimace, the words melting into the air as they leap off his tongue in a hiss. “Life’s pleasures sweeten when death’s approaching, ” he may have as well said. His thoughts were sharp and eloquence adverse, even in death’s embrace, as he stared straight into nothingness. And soon, he was no more. We often face life with the ecstasy of a young sailor leaving the shores as he sails into the vast seas, cursing the terrain that we have left behind. Yet we always depart from life lost and alone, wishing that we could trade all the waters around us for a foot of solid ground. Too much pleasure is no pleasuring thing. Like fine wine, the joys of life sweeten with age, and are to be savoured slowly: the haste of a youthful mind only robs the pleasure from pleasurable things, just as too much eating robs the body of its vitality. Beauty blossoms bright at the dawn of our blissful youth, but the winds of wisdom are an evening gale. And like the grand descent of day in ethereal and magnificent colour, there is scarcely such beauty as this.
I know that if the Doctrine is true, I shall perish irreconcilable with my Heavenly Father, for I abhor its preachers and loathe Christianity’s bold decry of earthly pleasures, and regard its sweet-scented wording as the erroneous works of deranged men. I shall not let some ‘heavenly Praesedium’ design my life’s constitution and poison my reason with their pointless promises of eternal bliss. The true fate of all life, and men, is death—the end of all things.
My place in the universe is by a warm fire, holding a hot cup of tea in one hand and a wife in the other, hoping that neither will grow cold as I look into the stars, pondering the mysteries of the universe, and the immortal mortality of man.
