Imagine...
A world full of people born without reproductive organs.
Without libidos, without erections, without pheromones, hormones, fetishes, strip clubs, pornographic images, pills, sex toys or bad pick-up lines.
Imagine a world where nobody needed to play with each other's emotions in attempts to sweet-talk their genitals into fusion to keep the population at bay, but rather, people connected solely through their emotions, where only love for each other could create life and hatred and conflict was avoided to avoid death.
Imagine - if flesh was merely a container - completely transparent and with no significance whatsoever except to hold together the vital organs. No one would judge another based on physical appearances, but instead the beauty of the soul would be clearly visible to all.
Even more interesting, if it were the case that people relied on their inner being to keep them alive and well, then the evil ones would be few, because the evil in their hearts would corrupt and erode their bodies like growing parasites. Contrarywise, the good in their hearts would not only drain away sickness, but radiate and affect those around them.
But I'm getting off topic.... what would we do without our sexual drive? How would we communicate? How would we show love? What would we sing about? How would we cope with stress? WHAT WOULD WE DO WHEN WE'RE BORED?
I would love to hear your ideas... In my opinion it sounds like a great idea for a story... or maybe, just maybe, it's how we should have been all along.

P.S. I better not get one fucking comment about grammar. I proof-read and edited this not once, not twice, but three times. Thank you.

Imagine...
A world full of people born without reproductive organs.
Without libidos, without erections, without pheromones, hormones, fetishes, strip clubs, pornographic images, pills, sex toys or bad pick-up lines.
Imagine a world where nobody needed to play with each other's emotions in attempts to sweet-talk their genitals into fusion to keep the population at bay, but rather, people connected solely through their emotions, where only love for each other could create life and hatred and conflict was avoided to avoid death.
Imagine - if flesh was merely a container - completely transparent and with no significance whatsoever except to hold together the vital organs. No one would judge another based on physical appearances, but instead the beauty of the soul would be clearly visible to all.
Even more interesting, if it were the case that people relied on their inner being to keep them alive and well, then the evil ones would be few, because the evil in their hearts would corrupt and erode their bodies like growing parasites. Contrarywise, the good in their hearts would not only drain away sickness, but radiate and affect those around them.
But I'm getting off topic.... what would we do without our sexual drive? How would we communicate? How would we show love? What would we sing about? How would we cope with stress? WHAT WOULD WE DO WHEN WE'RE BORED?
I would love to hear your ideas... In my opinion it sounds like a great idea for a story... or maybe, just maybe, it's how we should have been all along.

P.S. I better not get one fucking comment about grammar. I proof-read and edited this not once, not twice, but three times. Thank you.

Why is a rose not red forever? When will I find eternal treasure? Is true love to any avail? Or all part of a fairy tale? When will I see God, outlined in black, with a speech bubble above His head that screams, “HERE I AM!!” Closing my eyes, I see things more real than have ever entered my human eyes. Burning children – this is our humor. This is what makes us say, “Where is your God now?” Born angels, grown up demons, humans are sadists, killing our faith just so they can win, trying so hard to be the God they never believed in. Silently waiting for my conscience to strike again, so when the hand hits my face, I can scream again. Scream and maybe even cry, just so I can sleep again. Until then, I wait, listening to the clock tick until it melts with my brain, and maybe after I’ve broken some bones, my mind will be at ease again. Like an angel emerging from a fire, she steps into my vision, bright as the flames, until she nearly blends in. She draws near… She touches my face; I feel like a beast in a film where she is the beautiful nurse, who looks after me, who cares for me, who loves me, the only one I can trust. She is my peace. Her sweet voice resonates and drowns out the chaotic noise in the background. My spirit has lifted – I’ve been touched by an angel, but if I must die, can I take her with me? Keep in mind, I’m getting disorganized. Things are getting hectic. It’s not the 8th today, it’s the 22nd. I’ve fallen off my rocking chair, and I cannot get up. Stress is getting the best of me, or maybe I’m just getting lazy. I’m so bloody far behind I almost feel like going crazy. If I ever get inspired, I still will not be motivated to pick up my ballpoint pen and write unless I stay awake all night. Familiar sounds remind me of old times, and a familiar name reminds me of an old bike, the same bike that messed up my face when I was caught in a chain-link fence. Things soften, it’s all a nostalgic blur now… And now I’m floating on synthetic waves, hearing purple stars and tasting blue ink, swimming in emotion, not drowning – or at least if I am, I do not care; I am at peace. I am not afraid, floating up to the surface in a bubbly crescendo of warmth and light. This is love in its rarest form.

I am feeling like a king today. I’ve travelled farther than they said I’d ever make it. I have the urge to sing today. It’s been a crazy ride, but I know I’m meant to take it. I’m flying with the angels tonight. And I just can’t tell you how blessed I feel to get to know a life so gracious. How does my Father see me now? Am I a failure still, or does he see me precious (like a prodigal son)? I’m flying with the angels tonight. “Stoner” “Nigger” “Emo” “Whore” – what do you think you’re living for? “Hippy” “Homo” ”Jesus Freak” – know the words before you speak. “Goths” “Preps” “Chinks” “Gooks” “Fag” “Witch” “Pagan” “Spook” – Don’t deny what others covet; know who you are and love it. If it were possible to get any closer, would you want it? If you were capable to fuse yourself to me, would you do it? And do you think if I was able to let go, just like that, I would do it? Or if I had the chance to trade you in for a sham messiah, would I take it? Brother, do you have any idea that you’re greater than you could ever know? You’re a boy whose brilliance is only exceeded by your anger. Everyone’s a fool who tries to undermine your ability, or make you feel like each gift is really a curse. Come, let us fight together. We have to end this hate forever. Don’t let them destroy you, my brother. Expectations and dreams that may never be are soon to become notes in my unwritten biography. How am I to know what they want me to be when they never call? Ambitions are goals to keep me occupied. What else but these fantasies will give me hope to stay alive? No matter how full my agenda, I am never satisfied. I’m just bouncing on and off the walls. You may not know this but… each day you remain alive is counted as a blessing – to all of us. My world is not the same as theirs. The “movie effect” you see when you’re high, that world is everything around me, the lack of concrete in my mind. It seems to me this reality is more potent a drug than any I’ve tried. When black is grey, and night is day, something to believe in is hard to find.

“I’ll cool myself off with a little nature walk.” As all the familiarities swarm before my eyes and under my nose, nostalgia grows. My body shrinks, and my mind becomes younger. My memory goes to compose a serenade of wonder, and I myself wonder, why am I so regressive? The scenery takes me back, but I don’t want to go back; I don’t have to – so nice to feel my spirit lift, there in the present, may be a gift. The sounds of my life are decaying all around me. My vision is blurring, and it’s hard to move and breathe. All my logic and rationale are under attack, but maybe if I pinch myself, I’ll bounce right back. I just need to be reminded that all this I see is not me. But this brings me back to the age-old dilemma, doesn’t it? How do I become every definition of perfect? Certainly not through stream-of-thought poetry scribbled over top of white-out blots, raving about everything I have not, crying for what I ought, as I try to re-arrange God’s plot. It seems it’s time to pray again; time to push out my diaphragm and find the perfect words to say again. Everything I wish to be, but am not, is summed up in this pseudo-Christian dialogue. My tongue flutters frantically to appease the Powers that be. As they rage inside of me, they drain away my bleeding heart. Upstairs, I hear my conscience, screaming for vengeance, ready to jump out of the top floor, plummet to the depths of a remorseless ocean, and be swept away by the tides of indiscriminate violence. Televisions around my head, circling, circling, circling, circling, circling, circle in – circle out – the looming contortion of my eyes. The vision is so far away. The hand of friendship has no tangency for me, until my lungs pump one last blast of air, with which I scream out, “FUCK THE WORLD!” and suddenly, they come to me, and once more, three becomes company. But even the serenity of having a friend with me had cost me a piece of my identity. For all the sweetest parts of me were made bitter with barbaric speech and false bigotry. I would ask forgiveness, but nobody seemed offended, so I’ll get by pretending this night never happened…

This special glaze, it sweetens my mental haze, intoxicates harmonies, and lulls me to sleep while I slowly fall in love. I wish the sun would embrace me in its violet glow, and watch the Earth’s turn slow as it starts to snow. Let the blood flow into the horizon. The night is blackest just before the dawn, and I’ll be weakest before I rule the strong. And it won’t be long before I will be called a Chosen One, and prove to my Father I’m a worthy son. And I’m not the only one… Love drips from her thighs, rolling off onto my tongue. Static charges in her sighs turn whispers into song. Blood is hot, sheets are soaked, drowning in a liquid fire; gasping, shaking, madly close – two young souls fused by desire. Stunned to hear my own voice and its uncontrolled increase, then, as the whole world stops – simultaneous release. Naďveté is the mother of skanks - breeding a population of degenerated midgets, rebels without cause. Naďveté is the father of thugs; our children are nothing without drugs. Born to die, alive to kill – Innocence is the god of pain. Rush – pile up the paper quick, or get yourself a walking stick, because this world will leave you crippled. If you’re not the fastest rat in the race, they will leave their brand of scorn on your face. My paper house is a sanctuary of tradition, tradition that is not shared, because no one lives there. When happiness turns to sadness, joy becomes melancholy, impulse becomes regret, laughter turns to tears, anticipation turns to dread, love turns to hate, music becomes a headache, romance becomes heartache, nostalgia becomes regression, and mania becomes depression.

May 14-20.

Teenagers are the worst thing to be these days, when your favorite word is “faggot” and your worst fear is looking “gay”. Why are you so afraid? Why don’t you shut your mouth when you have better things to think about? You’re still a kid. You’re living the good life! I wish I did, but I’m just too smart for your level I guess. A snake with fish brains is what I’ve become tonight. With the perfect plan to do something, I have connected with the spirit of anything, and I want to shout to the world about whatever. I feel the need to grab my beloved someone, and sing her a song I don’t know. Those perfect gleaming eyes and that piercing smile have been engraved in my memory like a white-washed montage programmed to play during my final breaths. Sometimes I can’t believe how perfect everything is. It’s too awesome to be real. Sometimes I get the notion I dreamed this all up myself, and while I’m lost in my perfect little world, the rest of the world is watching me lose my mind. You wanted to be a big kid, you wished to grow up, and so you ate till you grew taller. You wanted to be a wise guy, you wished to be clever, and so you observed the world till you got smarter. Then you became discouraged as the world became colder. You wished to be a kid again, but you just kept getting older. No you want to be a man, you wish to truly live, and so you’ll hit the grindstone as life gets harder. Lick the window. Take some acid. With your mom. Eat your laughter. Face the day. Cut your foot off. Feel the bass, and sign along the dotted line. Intelligent dance my ass off. Ms. Big and Mighty Music Master, tell me everything you know. Or did it escape through your deviated nose? Yes, this is noise, and I like it. Who would have ever thought I would change so much overnight? Who would have ever dreamed that it would come time for me to take flight? But seeing how I’m treated now, I wish that day never came, because it seems to me that my coming of age just makes me easier to blame.

May 7-13.

My ego, who loves nothing more than being the victim of his own life, feeds on emptiness, gains inspiration through everything he lacks. Loneliness gives him comfort. Anger gives him fuel. Alienation gives him power, and his absolute loathe of the body he inhabits is what makes him so determined in his mission to destroy me. Work as if you’re getting paid. Kill your pride, lose your smile; we have a house to fix. Pull your weight and theirs as well. No one cares, no one helps; you’re all alone in this. Just stick it out a few more days and you’ll be done, you’ll be free, and then you’ll have your rest. Maybe one day, One sweet, vindictive day, They will realize How much they need you, and Everything you did for them, but it’ll be far too late. Mussels in sand, remnants of times past, times no longer shared; the selfish elderly wish to regress, but alone the joy is gone. Feelings lost in a sandstorm of nostalgia – mixed drinks, mixed messages, mixed emotions. Just rest on the shore. Death will be awhile yet. Capture samples. Catch some noise. Add some effects and some reverb. Take some words, slow them down until they sound like low grunts. Add an echo and some bells. Make it soft and picturesque. When you’re done, show your friends. Don’t give a title. Make it mysterious, so they want more. This is how you create inspiration. She said, “You have to start now and keep going, or you’ll lose momentum,” and then I knew, if I want to change my life, I have to start today, and I can’t stop. None can equal the love of a grandmother, whose sole purpose is to provide shelter, food and support when all the other relatives are “too busy.” I don’t understand how a woman so amazing and so talented can be taken so for granted, so from now on I will be the one to give you the appreciation you deserve.

April 30-May 6.

Baby, in all this time, have I changed in your mind? Or am I still me? The one that you thought wouldn’t reach through and find the angel in you, fast asleep? Look into my eyes – why don’t you believe me? I can’t trust your disguise – why do you deceive me? You know I’m trying, and I don’t want you to simply tolerate me; I want you to need me. A man – a cold, hardened bastard, so they say – with no heart, no soul, no regard for feelings, only skilled in matters of business. Yet he provides food and shelter and everything else. He gives generously to his children. A woman – a trashy old whore, so they say – with no job, no money, no life. She is doomed to a life of failure, but she has a heart of gold, and lets it shine. She has little, but what she has she gives wholeheartedly to her children. WHOSE SIDE WILL YOU CHOOSE? I woke up to see all of frozen Hell break loose on my city. Please tell me I’ve snapped. No egoism today – no impulse, no regrets, no depression – just me and my lover, coasting slowly through our life. It’s harrowing to see how you’ve been robbed through your life. As a child, your father stole your youthful joy. As an adult, your child(ren) stole your dreams and ambitions. All your life you’ve been a child raised by children, and now nothing else matters.

CHAPTER 19 >>

LOVE HATERS by Christopher James Scholten
July 22-28.

If the same life is seen through 12 billion eyes, do all eyes see the same? If we reach through the television portal and join hands, are we all the same person, with many names? None of it matters, when the tears fill her eyes and everything becomes silent. My whole world implodes as her emotions become violent. Even after all our time, she still tries to lie, still clutches vainly to the hope that she can hide. Though I shamefully admire the ultra-blue acrylic that reflects her affliction, nothing in this world matters until she’s smiling again. Will it ever end? Will the images ever leave my head? Is the joke finally on me? No – the joke is me. Totally defiled, craving my own knife, these Antichristian fantasies make me the victim of my own life. He, or rather IT, is in control again. His disgrace has no end, and I’ve let the sadist win again. Penetration, excruciation, fascination, admiration – I’ve lost patience. I need a little taste of Hell after the day’s toil; lying in a pool of blood, shit and oil, I marvel at the taking of my own innocence. Wake up – inhale a breath of reality again. It’s time to put the horrors out of my mind. For surely it is possible, and laudable, to write a piece that inspires without flooding the page with death and fire? Why live, if this life is hell; are we all not just as well the heirs of Heaven, forever to dwell? Speaking of Heaven, I think we’re getting close, if it’s euphoric Kama sutra that we are seeking the most. But all fantasy aside, here is my wish: not to let our love be eclipsed by pride. PRIDE? Why? I want to die! I left my high-and-mighty high and dry. A sigh, so shy, with no strength to cry… One more time, Daddy stole the gleam from my eye.

April 23-29.

The world is so messed up we’re inspired by anything that rhymes. Residential, confidential signs of the times. Long, graceful strokes left by my tarantella-dancing pen, this newly-found beauty, abandoned by its owner, left alone with nothing but her own treasure, waiting to be shared, waiting to be appreciated, waiting to be loved again… and now I get to grant her wish. Boots and cats and chains and gats and Smirnoff blats for no one else but the one who looks into this life like a bad dream. Who is this bipolar-caffeinated psycho child? Why is your horse out of the steeple? “I just like to screw with people.” Dad, don’t know why you got so mad, or why you always lost control, though you tried to hold it all in. We all were trying to make it work, but where to begin? The cycle was unending. But now, in two months’ time, I will be free and my life will be mine. And you – you will be better, but it will never be good enough until you have no one to control but yourself. Depression is the total loss of innocence, and the birth of hopelessness. It is a hole that I have sunk deeper and deeper into over the years, because gravity has never failed me. It is the one thing that is absolute in this world. I take comfort in that fact, and therefore in my own misery. But if I am to become bold, I must make gravity my enemy, and fight it myself, to pull myself up, and I will pull through, even if it’s just me against the world. Who am I? – To think I can push you away, and pretend I’m happy enough ignoring you? Who am I to think that I can act like such a fool and expect no one to suspect that I have a terrible problem? I am Ego. This tree – is it real? Yes, it bleeds; like me, it is mortal, and will die in due time. But what about this tree is so intriguing? It moves not, says nothing. It silently gives air to breathe and appeals to us with its beauty. It knows no wrong. Yet it is doomed to be burned. I am a mortal man. Yes, I bleed too …I am naturally evil… why should I deserve a better fate than this tree?

CHAPTER 18 >>

April 16-22.

Two people – one boy, one man, living two lives in one body. Do you feel it? Are you aroused, though you cannot see it? Pixilated audio in low resolution. Penetrating beats and chips – a suck with no solution. Psychotic moans pass through the filters of discretion and infect the subconscious mind, murdering its innocence. This shit is EVIL! But you cannot refuse it, because everybody’s doing it. This is what you want. This is what you need. Give them your submission and let them plant their seed. Inspiration is what keeps me alive – nay, it IS my life. If my life is my imagination, then my writing is knowledge for myself alone to know. Inspiration comes with being caught always between reality and cartoon, the beauty of the visions that appear in a constant strobe, and the feeling, a sort of high, that comes with every awakening of my senses, as I realize I have left my mind once again. I am amazed to see myself standing on the same bridge with the same girl whose eyes gleamed in the moonlight as I professed my love for her on that bridge seven months ago. And those eyes have not yet lost their sparkle. She’s changed aesthetically, but her heart still beats for me. Sometimes I wonder, why does she persist? Am I so crucial now to her well-being that I’ve become an addiction for her? This and many other questions fill my thoughts until they are all answered with a single kiss. I need to know, can you help me? You, whose title I cannot pronounce, do you really think you can save me? Or will I end up saving myself like I always do, with no help from you, as I sit in your chair and talk to myself? Though my heart has been ripped untimely from my chest, it still beats for You. My masochistic Friend, I’ve done You so wrong, but You said it must be done. You knew I’d be gone, and come running back again, begging for forgiveness, dying for Your love. Those moments are the most magical; those are the moments You live (and die) for. My father murdered the boy in me and buried him under a pile of insults and disappointment. He says I need some pride – Hypocrite! How can I have pride, when it too has been buried beside the corpse of my youthful innocence? But joyous day! I have found myself a shovel and a bucket of motivation, and now I am the only one who is both able and willing to bring that boy back to life.

CHAPTER 17 >>

April 9-15.

I’d always been taught not to hit a girl ever, so I just shoved her to the ground and made her eat my fucking screwdriver. Let’s hear you try to say that again with no teeth! I bet when you eat your words they’ll taste just like your feet. This is just brotherly love, and everything our family’s made of. How about an encore, you whore! You are my sister no more. You are dead to me. Look at what I did for you and look at what you did to me. So don’t you dare say a word about the best thing that ever happened to me. Perhaps my love is best shown in silence, before I destroy us all with violence. My attempts to make things right always leave us all burned out. But perhaps I’m not ready to express myself, and pull all my affections off the shelf. I don’t know how to show you I still love you without yelling the contrary. I am so weary, and I fear no one will hear me. Why do they sing? Why do they dance? Why do they kneel down and pray? And why do you feel so ashamed? Have you lost your faith today? Day by day, my face turns a brighter shade of red as I begin floating back into February, when I was reminded of my place in this house, of my powerlessness in this world, and of the futility of doing anything but remain silent. You hate me, so show it. Beat me, smite me, make me the object of your wrath and remove all my doubts. I love you, so I will show it. I will listen, I will smile, I will obey, and discard all my fantasies of murder. I will do the impossible – I will be love. This darkness – it’s so calm, like a warm friend. It embraces me when I’m in my saddest hour. It listens to me. It does not speak. I can say whatever I feel and it will not judge me. This darkness brings peace when rage knows no end. It calms and sedates me in its power until I begin to doze. Then it cuddles me; it hears my dreams. It watches fantasy after sickening fantasy, and still it does not judge me. Sometimes I wish I could stay with this darkness forever, but she too is a fickle one, and will be gone by morning. Verses of prose are what I speak. I love to paint pictures for you, but my brush skills are terribly inadequate. I specialize in abstract works, symbols of the straight answers that you will never get from me, because I cannot make up my mind. So I will keep painting these pictures in my mind, until I paint something that rings true, and when I do, I’ll hang it on the wall and start anew.

CHAPTER 16 >>

April 1-8.

I would drink Your blood, bathe in Your flood, let them drown me in that warmth, to wake up to Your face when I revive and spend the rest of eternity begging to drink some more. For in His blood, there was love; in His blood, there is life. But I am not worthy of even a taste. I cannot comprehend it. I cannot stay through Communion, but I so badly want to indulge myself until I understand it, until our worlds are in union. Mirrors reflect our complaints from pore to taunting pore. Face down at the shore, we find our peace in the moonlight. God is there too. The rock still lies there in shards, two thousand years wiser, still remembering its foolishness to think it could retain such an enormous glory, cover such a bright light, extinguish such a hot fire that still burns its memory, and if it ever had to face that Face again, it would be far better off to simply melt. And here I am imagining a photo shoot: She dances and smiles, and wraps herself around me – snap! – I turn behind her and tickle her sides, and as she giggles – snap! – she twirls out – snap! – I pull her back in – snap! – put in another roll of film and start over again. God sees the future, and prepares His wrath in advance. He knows all, sees all. He looks at our futile attempts to save ourselves and laughs – oh yes – His hearty chuckles echo through the thunder. His tears of frustration pour out from the clouds. I would say God feels this way, but I am not God. Jealousy is a bitch that took the form of my sister, to finally expose all the sins of St. Christopher. Oh, taste and see, how he let his angel down, how he let us all down by his deceiving silence. And just like a typical cowardly demon, the rat is out of sight again. Like a falling leaf in autumn, or a shiny silk ribbon blowing in the wind, or both, see how they slide and glide. Take in the beauty, admire the grace, and if you feel the dance is underappreciated, worry not; there are yet twenty more dancers waiting to dance the same dance.

CHAPTER 15 >>

March 26-31.

In parting with the natural beauty of essence, I came to know a vibrato lingering on my heartstrings. Time pressed me quick – spreading thin like a single gold nugget over a concrete field. Miscellaneous moments stored in digital, the best ones hidden in plein vue, and not a single word dripped from my lips without His consent. On this coaster, the thrill comes not with height, but with speed. I’ve got her locked in and ready to go, the wheels are in motion, and she tingles just slightly. The mountaintop approaches, but she can’t see it – until she drops. Now she can feel it – back arched, muscles tensed, in shock, everything is going blurry. She bites her lips tightly (“Don’t scream, don’t make a sound…”); she can’t keep a straight face. She wants to leap off the ride, out of her skin, but even after the climax, the wheels keep rolling. Curiosity did not kill the cat. The ignorant man’s car did. So which is worse – curiosity or ignorance? You always want more than you have, so when it feels like just less than enough, it’s probably enough. You fancy yourself a soldier of love, but it’s never enough, because you aren’t so tough. So go back to sleep; Don’t leave your mind in misery deep. My saving grace, my angel, my gift… I don’t deserve you. I don’t believe you’re real, but here you are, standing in my light as a constant reminder to me that life really is only a dream. Relax – it is just the water speaking to you, telling you to stop trying to swim, let yourself float awhile, and just… breathe.

CHAPTER 14 >>