Animal Instinct

When every breath reeks of deception, every blink of the eye hides an illusion, and every sound emanating from the throat whispers treason, can you be blamed if fidelity is not our strong suit?

Maybe to you, fidelity is a poison… one that eats into your very DNA, dissolving and vaporizing the million strands like an acrid and potent acid, and makes them akin to will o’ the wisp; and you feel alien and strange and claustrophobic and constricted, and the beast within you stomps in anger, bellows in fury, snorts in agony, spits fire and blood and rattles the very walls that cage it, in a desperate attempt to break free.

And when nature has its way, the beast will roam free, claiming the world for itself, leaving destruction and desolation in its path.

A Life Of Drugs

Someone had something interesting to point out to me the other day:
“Dopamine is a chemical the brain produces to give you a feeling that you refer to as happiness. And as your happiness increses, so does the amount of dopamine secreted in your brain. And all the happy moments in your life are retained in memory only because the brain keeps a record of that excess dopamine. That dopamine is also the reason you behave the way you do when you're "happy"... do things that you’d not normally do. And as the dopamine content in your brain stabilizes, you become your normal self. But the brain does not like the normal self anymore, and craves more dopamine. And that craving makes you sulk, become morose, and unhappy. Man is, by nature, a happiness junkie.”

I’ve no reason to doubt this analysis, considering they stem from a Microbiology background.
But it gives rise to some thoughts; disturbing ones at that:
Happiness is a drug-induced haze. Nothing more than a trip from some cerebral suppressant/stimulant. And like all drugs, it’s overrated, addictive, and destructive. Mind-numbing at best, useless, at worst.

THE REFLECTION

He sits hunched over, arms hugging his knees to his chest. His knuckles are white, blanched by the firm grip he extends over his arms. His head is bowed, as he rocks back and forth. A faint hum cuts through the still night. Intent listening identifies it as a whine melting into a moan, that stifles a sob.
I draw closer. I put my hand on his shoulder and he goes still. But the murmurs continue to escape his lips, appearing involuntary and in complete control of his constitution. But otherwise, he pays my intrusion no heed. I stop short of shaking him to grab his attention, as I feel tremors run through his body, and a contraction of his entire torso -- like he’s bracing for more pain.
“What’s happened?” I ask.
No answer.
“Why are you sitting in a corner all alone in this state?”
Silence.
“Is there anyone you are waiting for?”
A moan.
“Who’s done this to you?”
A sniffle.
“Can I do something to help?”
Stillness.
“Are you lost? Did someone leave you here?”
A moan.
Can’t tell if that’s an answer to the question. I give his shoulder a squeeze and a shake.
Nothing!
I take two steps back, give him some space. Utter my questions again.
Silence.
Then, as if he’s in a convulsion, he uncurls himself. He stands. He turns towards me.
I recoil in shock.
Crumpled face.
Swollen lips.
Puffy eyes.
Bloodshot eyes.
Tear-stained cheeks.
Disheveled hair.
Dull eyes.
Dilated pupils.
Blood-clotted lips quivering, but still.
The moans keep coming: Mechanical. Monotonous. Insistent. Persistent. Continuous. Rhythmic. Piercing. Soft.
They send a shiver down my spine.
He walks towards me. I stand rooted, unable to move, staring at him in horror and fascination.
His walk is unwavering. He closes in on me. Reaches out. His fingers close around my wrist, clammy and cold.
All feeling leaves me.
His form turns hazy. Ethereal. He fuses into me.
And I am him.
I feel what he feels: Despair. Hurt. Anger. Pain. Misery. Fatigue. Fear. Desolation. Betrayal. Rejection. Loneliness. Melancholy.
But worst of all, I’m mute.