Grace is thought of when the pastor enters his celestial quarters that is the church, and preaches his daily intellect. He yearns for no love, nor does he carelessly spread it; his exaltation is reserved for God and only Him alone, never allowing his human emotions to interfere with his theological psyche, never allowing for temptation to lurk its satanic jaws over him, never dancing with the devil. He lives a life of example, a humble harbinger of hope. It was safe to say that he never, – and I even hesitate to use the word “he,” for no man whose roots sprouted from the original sinners could preserve and maintain the mechanical lifestyle of this pious individual – never in his wildest wonders, will he realize the immortal mark his oratory has indented on society. Indeed, his rhetoric is the very vessel that primitive civilization may experience God through; a temporary tunnel misguided mankind may walk through to witness heaven’s rejuvenating light. These ethics however, these dogmatic principles in which this “cult of personality” figure fashioned upon himself, while they are capable of hushing the most of anxious disciples even more when approaching the pulpit, while they silenced the most possessed of wild beasts, and bringing them into their knees, are not what makes this individual so essential for mankind’s prosperity. This man serves as evidence, evidence that corruption and oppression is merely an illusion of the inexperienced eye, evidence that in fact, this soil in which we temporarily inhabit is fertilized not by the blood of the murdered, but by the compassion and benevolence of our fellow man, evidence, testified through his grace. Therefore since grace is the insignia, the foundation, of all charismatic figures in mankind’s experiment of society, the individual I am about to describe epitomizes the rhetoric and influence of Christ Himself.
She carried with her no more than a bag wrapped around her voluptuous shoulders to hold her books, and the black blouse and jeans she’s worn for days. She blossomed from the ashes of the earth yet her hair encompassed more waves and texture than the planet itself. Indeed, the planets and she, at this moment, seemed to compliment each other, an indulging touch of theatre that easily captivated me into its acts. The sun’s rays danced and leapt with joy when touching her face, radiating, begging, to illuminate her amber skin. It was truly a privilege to witness these two fiery entities, the sun and her, to court and produce what I cannot even begin to describe. Her face, the perfect marriage between innocence, and lust, for she stood at the cusp of adulthood, exhibiting this beautiful woman that stood so timidly before me, but at the same time, the confidence she boasted entailed a thousand adventures. Her lips, more soft and tender than the embrace of one’s own warm-hearted mother; they were vibrant, welcoming, but at the same time, exclusive, only reserved for the one whose rhetoric and wit matched hers. Her body smooth and gorgeous, almost proof that the Greek Gods exists, for only Aphrodite herself could have sculpted such beauty. Indeed, a demigoddess, with the power to destroy, capable of crushing men at her command. Alas, her body was untouchable, locked away at her own desire, with Grace herself as the locksmith to this key. It was for these reasons, that only the most ambitious, and determined of men would even contemplate challenging such a force of nature; each suitor when confronting her, witnessed the multitude of fallen men who have stood at the very same pit he stood right now. Each single man fell, his intellect defeated and humiliated, with death as the price of such disgrace. And despite my vivid recollection of all these deaths, that the possibility of wooing her -- of chipping away at any second-thoughts she stubbornly grasped this woman -- is nearly inconceivable, this is where I stand, gazing at the lifeless corpses that are now my omens. I began to tremble, pressured by my own fear, sweating profusely, finally beginning to contemplate the reality of the situation. The fear swallowed me whole, the paranoia devouring at my thoughts, turning them inside out; the once profound and composed ballad I have nurtured and prepared as a testament of my consecration has betrayed me at my finest hour, becoming this incomprehensible cacophony, crushing whatever confidence I had. I lost hope.
However, then I looked at her once more, her hazel eyes her most powerful instrument of all, gazing at me, scanning my every emotion, my every thought, my every passion. My God, not even the romantic language of Arabia would be sufficient to describe the beauty and influence of these eyes. They were the seven seas, the Gulf of Mexico, and all the oceans rolled into one. I was confident in them, despite the high waters and dangers in there. I was entrenched, trapped deep in its darkest bowels. But then I saw the unavoidable sparkle shimmering in the distance. The oceans illuminated, the seas rose in fear. I saw the moon, and I knew I was close to home.
She said not a word, but instead, only gave me a quick wink, a trivial sign that she not only accepted, but also even embraced my challenge to her heart. At that same instant, every single part of me was rejuvenated, sparked by the very embers of her curiosity. My mesh of a ballad had been resuscitated, rewoven into a new canonical fabric that I never felt before, and yet, it fit perfectly, accommodating into my bulky build nicely, it was as if I had worn this my whole life. And then the epiphany struck me: my rhetoric, my mind, my existence, will constantly be in jeopardy, and unless I had this goddess to stitch the fatal wounds of solitude, I am dead, a martyr for my own writing, for I have devoted my life to writing so poignantly, that such stubborn sacrifice will result into the bane of my existence. It’s now or never. And as I commence in a battle of wit and intellectual prowess against this girl, I shout to the heavens and yell out some instinctive war-cry I still can’t interpret. Perchance it was fragments of my once “incomprehensible cacophony” that stubbornly refused to change, perhaps it was some romantic rudiments inside me that had long resided in me, but have now concentrated and now became impossible to ignore. Whatever its meaning, I heard these words escape my mouth: Lovo, A Rainy Mule!
She was swift, nimble on her thoughts to say the least. While she did admire my valor, she was nonetheless, hostile, suspicious, always uneasy over what my next move was. It was the Cold War with her, each one of us possessing apocalyptic weapons readily able to destroy the other, the paranoia of both parties making the other more anxious. I wanted this girl intact, so while I knew nuclear methods would accomplish the task, such extremities will change her, forever mutate her pristine aura into radioactive waste. I needed to woo her, but with delicacy, and caution, but such an approach is the equivalent of teasing a snake; if I make one mistake, she will inject her venom into my veins, leave me paralyzed with the rejection’s poisonous fangs. She thought she would finish me off in the first attempt, throwing a powerful blast of her wisdom at me. However, I remained intact, did not even flinch; I stood my ground, for I knew that despite how much pain this blast inflicted, it was not enough to destroy my passion, the fountain of my vitality. She stood, half-impressed, and yet agitated, that such a foolish mortal could withstand her dexterity; she saw my motionless stance as insult, a taunt mocking her strength, and to be honest, that was exactly my intentions. I have begun the chess match with the French Defense, while she has played aggression, moving the queen early on, but her bluff of a check plays no effect on me. One must be patient, develop pieces initially. Carnal satisfactions were not on my agenda. I contemplated a different type of mating. To add insult to injury, I returned the same suggestive wink at her, knowing that doing so will disrupt the serene, composed goddess and unleash the deranged demon that has been shackled so many years. This demon consumed her logic, the reason that had been locked in the fortitude that is her grace, was now distressed, taken hostage by her own emotion, she had lost control.
She charged at me with such agility and haste, throwing me every single punch she had; her fists no longer having the smooth texture and fragility of a woman, they were masculine, bulked in the knuckles and with veins emerging from her palms. Her hair lost its silky resemblance and was now coiled, like that of the skin crawling serpents of Medusa before feasting on the flesh of her male victim. She lost all resemblance of a woman, and transformed into man. The first punch I easily dogged out of, but the second landed with such a cold and harsh impact on the left side of my face, that I had no resolve but to break my unflinched stance. My cheek became swollen with the blizzard of the hit, with blood crawling from my lip as its first victim. My face began to heat with anger, no longer consisting of my soft features, but constricted. My mind no longer composed, but conflated with sentiments of both passion and animosity. My fists were clinching up, my muscles contracting in the tension this single punch catalyzed. I grabbed the contours of her waist and threw her across the floor, realizing that flattery would not penetrate through her isolation’s iron gates. If I wanted to hold the gates for her, to fend off any hostilities from it, and in exchange permanently reside with her, I had to show her. She backed for a moment, scared, nervous, but not by my strength – she knew physical violence was interim and convulsive. Simply, my sudden hostility towards her made her unsure now what exactly my intentions were. I had no motivation of inflicting physical pain upon her, nor to seduce this creature into my arms. Simply, I needed to show her, show her that she was not alone.
The truth was, this demigoddess, as powerful as she was conceived to be, considered herself weak. Indeed, such a paradox may be difficult to contemplate at first blush, but one must consider the past to understand the present: her challengers, every single one of them, were not risking their very lives solely to engage in conversation. Overwhelmed by this young woman’s lustful features, their primitive psyches yearned for carnal desires, a chance to push their lucks and strip her of the one virtue she valued. The virtue whose possession substantiated her righteous intentions, and reminded her that her soul must be intertwined with that of the angels, and not of the fallen: her chastity. However, this chastity was priceless, the apex of her grace and beauty; thus, she feared that the one who would take it would not embrace such a poignant gift, but ridicule it, for it would represent not her grace, but clouded intuition and convulsive stupidity. This fear quickly consumed her, transforming her from the brilliant scholar she had set herself to be, to the paranoid misanthropist I saw standing before me. I did not hate this woman, nor did I pity her for letting such stubborn paranoia override her impeccable wit. I am disgraced at my own society, the masculine populace, for generating and harboring such disrespectful actions. We have trapped her in a sandstorm of despair, the winds of reality crashing on the sides of her swollen cheeks, each step she so resiliently balked only caused her to trip on her own illusions. She was exhausted, thirsty for that true savior to pick her up, to lead her to that oasis of paradise that was his company, to free her from this endless drought of solitude, and bring forth an era of sunshine, an era that would make Helios himself praise such radiating passion. Each attempt to get up became harder than the previous. Eventually all the affliction, all the anguish became so unbearable that she couldn’t stand, her petite legs giving into the immense weights of masculine malice, her bones brittle with the malnourishment of false hope, her skin deteriorating from the friction of being dragged across the coarse grains of sand. She was abandoned, left to emaciate on this dry, barren wasteland, trenched deep in the dark abyss of seclusion. With her mind as her only companion, it was this moment where she closed her heart permanently, deciding to no longer trust another man, knowing that in doing she, while miserable and alone, will never face the cruel realization of abandonment, never again tasting the bitter fruit of duplicity. I did not feel anger when this goddess attacked me; I felt shame.
My pupils began to disappear, along with my solemn brown eyes, and soon a haze of white entered diluted its iris. My mind began to lift her up, high in the heavens, surpassing the clouds themselves. Her mouth gapped in awe, realizing that I was not an ordinary mortal, for I was able to match her wit, but also so much more. “You don’t understand,” I shouted to her, the tears already flowing from my eyes; I do not know why I began to cry, the thought of losing her was so unbearable for me, and I hadn’t a clue how to fight. She saw that I had lost my composure, my game in strategy no longer tactical, but a last stand, a premature display of passion. “You are not cursed, you are not destined to break men’s hearts, for you chose to, jus-“. I couldn’t say it, my voice breaking with the heat of the moment, my emotions about to erupt just as the gentle giant Mt. Vesuvius crashed on its loyal posterity. I then placed her down, my eyes returning to their normal soft state. “Just as you’ll choose to break mine,” I softly whispered.
I brushed my hand through her hair, each of my fingers running down its long strands, flirting with every twist and turn the seductive whips offered. I slowly smiled at her, my grin revealing to this goddess my true intentions; I did not need to explain my thoughts, for my face poured out all my emotions, all my passion, all my platonic love that I felt for her. My hands moved along her face now, stopping at her cheeks, and slowly caressing them with the side of my fingers. She was no longer cold, but warm, radiating with so much color and happiness that God Himself was envious. Her fists no longer pumped but they relaxed, becoming so soft they became the very silk for the Oriental Dynasties. She got closer to me, her fingers now playing with the contours of my chest. She looked up at me, our eyes locked in at each other, freezing time itself and trapping us in this moment, turning us into prisoners to each other’s chambers. I got closer to her, leaning over to her face, and softly pressed my lips on hers. She accepted my warmth, and placed her hands on my back, trapping herself in at my embrace. She moved her lips along with the direction of mine; if I moved them slightly she followed, if I stepped back she stepped forward, we countered each other’s movements, each other’s thoughts. We were complete opposites, two polar forces of energy ready to collide with another, to dissolve in each other’s solution of fervor, and coexist as one, with the sole obligation to sustain the other. This osculation was more than an expression of my infatuation; it was the vessel in which my impalpable devotion to her was transported. More importantly, it was the way I received her devotion, her ardor, herself; this, this was only the beginning.
Finally, our pursed lips began to break apart, and we slowly escaped from the realm of our fantasy, and began to seep back into this world. She stood speechless, simply dumbfounded by how intimately I had just testified in her court of love. I was the defendant, and I awaited her verdict, the few words that will either free me of my prison of solitude, or destroy me where I very stood. My tears, exhibitions of my testament to the court, herself as the judge, the trial, and jury all at once. I was at my most fragile state, every motion, every gesture, was meticulously analyzed in her mind now. Never had she witnessed a man’s plea for mercy; their strategies always aggressive, but she saw the submission I had placed myself under. The hour of judgment had arrived, with God’s will facilitated in this young force of nature, capable of lifting me into enamored paradise, or bittersweet euthanasia, with both the latter and former leading me to bliss. I leaned closer to her once more, she approaching me as well. For an instant, she turned away, her head swaying like a pendulum with the opposing forces of paranoia and passion. She was afraid, afraid of allowing her heart to open for another man, afraid that he will betray her, just as so many had before, afraid that I too will lose my sweet oratory to her, and begin to control her.
The once metronomic oscillation of her mind began to stop, her logic unable to be transported, her pendulum of reason now creaked when swaying, turning into rusted iron; it was defective, obsolete. My passion, my immortal love for her, now became her lubricant; oiling the once rusty pendulum, reinforcing its impenetrable foundations, but also welding the faults, the gaps of reason. The product was beyond amazing, working greater than ever before. Her mind was clear, for once, the haze of doubt and animosity subsided; she knew how I felt, how she felt. She knew what to do.
Her tender fingers wiped the tears off my face; with such motherly care and fragility it was as if she knew me my entire life. The scene was so touching, so powerful that it buried me deep within my own contemplations, creating a black shroud around me, and soon, darkness replaced the afternoon sky. I was lost in my own thoughts, my mind’s labyrinth. She stood with not her bags, but a small creature, wrapped in blankets and held tightly to her chest. It was small and fragile, with its eyes closed and serene, resembling much her grace and beauty, but at the same time, exhibited the very curiosity and wit I idly brandish. Opening its eyes, it peered its head out of the warm security of the blanket, bracing the foreign elements, nervous, yet eager to feel the cold air bash her tender face. It was confident, which almost frightened her mother, for she bore such an ambitious child in her hands; the pioneer had no exposure of the outside world prior to this moment, and yet, let go of the cotton shackles of infancy, and instantly freed herself of her mother’s embrace, looking straight into my eyes. The creature moved its tiny hands in the air, making a typing motion almost, akin to that of writing. I knew that moment, that like me, she, this creature, had a passion for writing, and the very taste of contemplation’s cuisine created such a filling satisfaction, that death himself would arrive any moment and I would happily submit to his mercy. The dream now began to fade, subside within my mind’s deepest pits, with only the figurative residue left as memory.
Her face snapped me back to reality, realizing that she has not spoken a word yet. Her lips began to open, and I helplessly awaited her sentence. It was soft spoke, quiet, barely audible to the human ear, but the message was clear. “Cuenta todas las semillas de fresas en todas las granjas en esta planeta, uno por uno, y apúntalas. Ese numbero, sea lo que sea, apenas cosquilla la superficie de mi amor para tí. Y que esas fresas tengan más posteridad que Adán y Eva, y que…-“ I kissed her so abruptly and voraciously that her body shuddered at the touch of mine; the whole rush of it all: the strenuous fights with her, the traumatic eras of malaise that followed, the passion of finally allowing this suppressed feminine shower of emotion percolate through masculinity’s sexist filters, were just reactants to this powerful elixir of life I’ve so absent-mindedly imbibed. It seemed for hours we locked.
As the opus was on its last notes, the audience positioned in the tips of their seats, the pastor himself politely sitting with his hands anxiously clasped between his legs. I released myself from her lips’ pull, and finished romance’s rhapsody, “…y que el puro ruído de esas fresas sembrándose suene por las generaciones.”