Part Dos

A story - an anecdote really - for part two.

This one involves the night but no teenage girls wanting to mingle with the Nosferatu. No shining vampires, no southern gentlemen, not even cast-iron Moore-ish nearly human vampires.

It once again entails the tale of two cities. Built on the foundations of human intellect and creativity we have managed to define thought and feeling as different emotions propagating from two distinctly different sources in the human body. Biologically there is no argument. I am fortunately not a biologist - my brief incursion into that world resulted in nothing more than gutted fish and the knowledge that I may or may not be a carrier of every genetic disease known to man.

I am however an optimistic misanthrope. Sometimes. Not really. Not even a little, not even at all.

Thinking with the heart is a romantic idea. Some say romance died in the 20th century. They were born in the 18th century. I suppose now the thing to say will be "Romance died in the 21st century" and people will clamor genius and that will be that.

The six quintessential quarts are what brings life to every inch in our body. Just like love. Love would then actually be all around us.

And red is the color of love! What would it mean for those blue-bloods out there then? A lifetime of the blues and melancholy?

And yet the skeptics in the audience doth protest enough. We think with our brains they say. Emotions are a mellange of cross and self-referencing thoughts. They boil it all down to a science. Like the psychiatrists that pop out every now and then with the "key" to the human brain.

And so you're kissing the girl you've been hoping to woo all year. The horizontal plane reminds you of the long lost memory of geometry and Mrs. Simmons and her black frame glasses and the way her wavy blond hair would swish to and fro during first period. Your hand explores her gentler, smaller, softer frame. Your marvel- beautiful. She pulls on your hair softly and you look into her eyes looking for the warm, vanilla smelling, cinnabon tasting feeling.

But your brain goes into overdrive.
Am I being to aggressive?
Am I any good right now?
I wonder what she's thinking...
Is my roommate coming?
What time is it?
My roommate is going to hate this...
What is that taste?
Should I be doing this?
Is she what I built her on to be?
Under or over?

And the dance continues. It's still just a dance.

The problem becomes when it becomes a struggle. I interpret the struggle as my demons.