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Love is the Greatest Horror Story of All

(Parasites, Politics, and Napalm)

By MarkPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 4 min read
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"My Love propagates virally in so far as money communicates my malaise..."

The root of Love, loving of others, or loving of the world, is truly at its heart, a thirst for disaster; and it is exhibited throughout the entirety of its passage. At its most elementary, Love-for-things is driven by a longing for the material possession to be cruelly unrequited, fostering every kind of repellent self-abasement, awkwardness, and idiocy.

Love’s true nature, if left unsupervised, seeks to rid itself of life force that propels it forward. Falling in love only seeks to drive one towards the absolute expenditure of one’s strength and well-being. The cycle of falling in or out of love thus materializes as a flirtation with survival. Love’s sole pursuit lies in avoiding the possibility of ever needing to fall in love again.

The possessed wastes away, expending their well-being and personal wealth in a senseless fit of wastage, restoring one’s working ability to that of a cripple, emptying one’s hapless mind into a void of apathy. At the end of this voyage lies the final breakage of health, unadulterated destitution, psychosis, and often suicide.

The Epistemology of Love, when refined to its most basic premise, can only be understood as an Authoritarian Force: thus “Falling in Love” seals its own finality within the phrase, “Falling in Love” once and for all.

Love, in this sense, is the greatest horror story.

My Love is a parasite, a dystopian totalitarian state that grows inside me. It infests my nerve endings in jagged discontinuities, propelling itself towards my extremities to the highest libidinal tension. My Love anchors itself into my memories, yet it feels as if I’m being dragged down into the unknown. At the apex of my infection sits its alleviation, in the syringe of “I like”, and the long scalpel of “I love you”. My primitive germinal influx rebukes this parasite’s harmony and threatens to deluge every attempt at collectivity.

My Love is truly an American love, a love cold and cruel because it is based on a dangerous leech-like double bind: loyalty in competition, and competition in loyalty. A Love that is quite Protestant, Puritanical, Capitalist, and White. My Love is to be regarded as a subject of political economy as much as a biological subject: a competitor, a business plan, a future. A private enterprise that is slowly syphoning resources from the body, annexing territories, and blurring the lines between “it’s” and “mine”. My Love propagates virally in so far as money communicates my malaise, replicating itself through me as its host whose boundaries it invades, and whose desires it reprograms.

Here in the Voodoo, the principal Economic Flows of Love take place through armament and drug exchange. The trading arena of annihilation, the market; is my blood, spirit, and soul. Love suddenly finds itself in the unholy incarnation of Napalm: a fluid that crawls and reworks its target as it thickens. The more fluid Napalm becomes, the more intensely it burns. Love mirrors this incomplete burning. In my scarred, fevered skin, you see a person who belongs, who is captured, who is possessed by this sickness and burning.

Yet there are times in which the morbid horror of burning infects the beloved, or One is oneself infected by the burning of another, or two strains of fire collide, so both members spiral into a helix of suspended napalmlike disintegration, cheated of innocent disaster. True love is always unrequited, because like Napalm, it can’t quite be recuperated in time. The Phrase “Make Love, Not War” in remembrance of the “Free Love” counterculture of the 1960’s (echoing Napalm’s usage in Vietnam), can only be lauded a modest statement regarding the modern status quo. My body is open to all the people: my Love is Democratic Capitalism.

“Courtly Love” has disappeared from our shared territory, once remembered in the Victorian Era fiction of “Pride and Prejudice”, and is being refashioned and sterilized into something new, “A Brave New Love”, and if we think this can be stopped, we are even more naïve than we seem. The totalitarian nature of this parasite hacks through and subsumes my defenses in its search for the outside. A nation cannot be conquered from without until it has destroyed itself from within.

My Love bursts out from my chest and lungs, cracks apart my ribcage in one swift debilitating motion; it eats away at my rancid bluish greenish face, dissolves my tongue into incoherent babbles, and then insists on consuming more.

This parasite, my Love, searches for a war to be waged, only for the narcissistic purpose of asserting its existence: against a world where my every passion will go unacknowledged, unknown, unbeknownst, and finally, fade away.

Love
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About the Creator

Mark

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