The birth of men

Do you find it hard to be who you are? Indeed, you do. That is because you are no one.

I can't manage to be who I am when I am with those with whom I want to be who I am. I am gross. I am male, but feeble. The woman I say I want is no one, she is tiny, puny. She is nothing. A man's recourse to manliness, a rather pleasant prop to triumphant imperial masturbation. Something to deplore for her lack of gut and extroversion. A shame she doesn't express herself. And then the talk pretty much wanes. What else is there to discuss. Us men have a hard time between being something among each other and touching each other, too sharp and too dirty.

Too bad, because, really, I am weak and that is all that I can say to these men. Such a negative expression. An oxymoronic energy. But why? These men inspire me. They make me laugh when I see them behave, they are quirky, odd. One can't make the simplest decision, the other is like an old man, a timid patriarch, the other is a child, the other is without worthy purpose, or so is his trauma, cute, and the last is your nemesis. If you tell them you love them their magic is lost. They disintegrate. Well, maybe not. Who knows. In any case, there is much to prove to them.

With women at least you can boast. You can talk and deplore, you can cry and summon, you can look in the air and feel that a myriade of disciples are behind you. Bored sometimes, but you rest assured that they can and do make use of their multitasking magic to escape somewhere far away where they can make of you whoever they wish. They neither judge nor not judge. They are nice. They like to have you around and that make you feel just fine. They are not men.

In any case, men are at issue here, so let's not detract. The boys are good. You want to be like some of them. You want to be dumb. You want to be cute. You want to have that body, you want not to know you have that body. You want that dick and you want it limp. You want it too bored by the blandness of female sexuality, so beyond erection, so in need for the hardest most laboriously masterful mistress to even consider penetration. Well not necessarily. But you want that flirt. You want to pretend not to know. You want to be in control. You want to be in control. You must know. You must be able to concentrate. To be inspired, yet calculated, sensitive to those around you, the salvation of the lost and the meaning of being for the directed. You want skills you want to want to not want and want what you are and more, and more. You want to see. You want to be able to reach the window, so oddly high.

I'm not sure that's it though. I mean, you can be perfectly comfortable around those whom you envy for whatever reason, so long as you are alone with them. So why all the fuss? Why can't you be who you are with these men? I suppose that the converse is implied to be otherwise, though that is in fact not true. Right you are: you may not be so small beside a woman, but you certainly are not who you are. In fact, it may very well be worse. For if with men you are afraid to compromise your identity, with women you compromise yourself before having a clue who you are, that is, you compromise the wrong identity, the actor's identity. With men you can't fake it, with women you are merely fake. Are you really anyone at all? Do you take for granted that you have anything inside you to be untrue toward? I am not sure that is the case.

The problem of course is: can you really be anyone without anyone? No. So go on and do and don't worry about not succeeding in existing, because one day you will be born. On that day however, rest assured that you will be recognised. After all, is witnessing birth itself not the only way to be sure of life?