What are days for?
Days are where we live.
On this day a friendly black and white dog is quietly trotting by. I am sitting on a patch of grass by a beach villa as my brain continues struggling to let itself go.
Other parts of my body are also struggling. For example, my hands are struggling to unite themselves with another body, my eyes are struggling to untie themselves from desire, my heart is struggling to comprehend itself, and my nose is struggling to become aware of the subtle scents that serenade it everyday. Currently I'm detecting coffee, grass, hints of the sea and notes of tea-tree from a recently acquired deodorant.
I have heroes in my struggles: the dog's nose, the mountains's eyes, the night sky, whose infinite heart comprehends itself by making star systems and creating things like humans on them. Some of whom wake up and have their centre of gravity shifted by your beauty. I cannot help my orbiting, I hope that we will collide and explode.
Two days later and the washing machine is groaning with the salt and sweat from the weekend's beach getaway. The black and white dog has just sniffed my crotch, the air is still and hot. What are days for?
Making love in? Alas, that isn't what I'm doing with them at the moment. Instead I'm writing about what it's like being in them in Cyprus while other people watch 'inside the world's toughest prisons' on a large LG TV. Actually, when I look up I notice no one is watching it because they're both on their laptops. How many humans are on their laptops, and how many are making love at this moment on earth? I would guess, sadly, that the laptop greatly outnumbers making love. Is this the future of humanity? No, it's the present.
Days are where we live. Or is it the days that live in us?
Another one has come and woken me into it. The wind is flickering leaves on a house plant, and a flicker of sexual fantasy reappears in my mind as I eat egg fried rice.
The wind of sexuality has been blowing a gale in my body recently. A line of metaphorical boats eager to start a race are lined up on the sea. There is plenty of wind, but the start has been delayed. It's high time the whistle was blown. The whistle blower is confused over things like gender power dynamics and the moral implications of making love versus fucking.
Days, what else? George Clooney would say if he were hired to advertise where we live and not Nespresso. However, days do not require advertising, because you cannot buy them, you can only live in them.
Where can we live but days? In the mysterious world of sexual fantasy? A world fraught with struggle between wild desire and the confused sand castle of morality. Is it a castle built to ensnare untamed dragons or to direct society down a path of cordiality?
Answering that question will bring the priest and the doctor, with their long coats on the floor, running naked over their bodies, escaping the world's toughest prison.
What are days for? Being in, what else?
