*Orina Dorothy*

Green. A conspicuous unmistakable depiction of life…

A beauty that demands to be savored

To be gradually absorbed and in soft intentional waves make its way through and into your core; because other than it being a color, it manages to create a sanctuary within you.

In some outlandish sort of way, it inexplicably intertwines your roots with those of the grass and the trees and for a while, you feel one with nature. Probably the only giant ugly chunk of mass but still, one with nature. It takes you in anyway. Into an uttermost soothing and relieving and worry free space-time.

My train of thought bears a large of stash of mingled yarn. Does death take away life? Or does it change the form of one into another. Is there just life and more dynamic life rather than exclusive death? Existence as opposed to nothingness? Interconnectedness…perpetuity… the beautiful uncut hair on graves? Life could arguably be harmonized with energy hence the presumption of non-existence becoming only plausible for particular existence claims rather than the methodological preference for an empty world or rather cessation of existence.

The mystery and entangled strings of life are particularly of great fascination to me. I want to grasp it, hold on to it, consume it and delight in its pleasantries. I want to dip myself into its enigma and hopefully fit together some jigsaw pieces. That would definitely spark up some unbridled exhilaration and satisfaction.

Imagine this…

A triple scoop strawberry cheesecake ice cream subdued with an overwhelming gob of vanilla deliciously clothed in hot fudge and crumbled cookies and chocolate shavings and gummy bears and creamy dripping

The kind you wish to generously smear on your tongue and relish it in its crunchiness, creaminess, melting sensation and scrumptious impurity.

A wholesome ambrosial conspiracy!

To fully savor life, our brains tell us to not deny ourselves the simple pleasures. Like discovering the single white hair on your head which at any rate, you’ll preen and posture and flaunt and add it to the volumes that beautifully construct your aura. Or the most impeccable verbal sequence of words in a suave voice like dark brown velvet…

And since we are ever so naïve to our brains or decidedly emotions, we helplessly give in. And adore the dimples on golf balls, the dark theme in a software, the plate with the salamander print, the twirling smooth edges of hair, the meticulous shaping of letters in a perplexingly rare handwriting, the scream in the middle of an instrumental- okay that’s probably annoying

But you get to define yourself in the things that spark you up and cause your eyes to seemingly grow. Those that send a chill down your spine, that of simultaneous anxiety and excitement. It could probably cause people to scrunch up their hoodies with the draw strings because “Oh my God, you are being so weird right now! Who does that!  Who likes that?”

But appeal is relative, and appealing things deserve appreciation, don’t they? You want to see and touch and feel and be enamored of this really breathtaking activity or thing or pet. Your senses are crying their lungs out. And so you reach out to this obsidian rock, to the flowers with the uncannily delightful hue, to the congenial sunset painting your friend just did, to the white fluffy glossy-eyed puppy…

Because you want to, because you can, because you are being yourself, because you are appreciating the beautiful revelations of nature.

Sacred appealing things also deserve appreciation, right?

They are marvelous and charmingly delightful but we are careful to interfere with those. Why?

Because being oneself is not enough to cause hostility and antagonism yet it has potential to, when your light-cone intersects with another’s light-cone. At that point when the parameters of your actions bear an interference, then harmony becomes critical.

Other than loving and desiring and wanting to savor turkey burgers dripping with ketchup and smothered with grilled onions, we adore the meticulous architecture of the human body, and grant our senses the liberty to satisfy their desires, shamelessly being unable to distinguish an appealing thing and a sacred appealing thing because one relatively requires permission and the other absolutely requires permission.

For some very inexplicable reason, some are of the view that that they can flirtatiously look, touch and/or have sex with a female on grounds that they want to, that they desire to, that the lady is in sight or inside the same walls. Being careful not to use all, it is said that until a man is touched by a gay man is when he understands the meaning of consent. You could allow and encourage the act and the person will go on, without crossness or indignation. And you could say no, which would guarantee some repulsion and aggravation if the person happened to advance. And you could also be unconscious, say drunk, and sleep at a friend’s house only to find out the next morning that they had sex with you. That they are gay. And you’d utterly loathe and detest the act. Not because they are gay, but because you feel violated, because you didn’t give consent for it. Because you sleeping at their place, for whatever reason, doesn’t guarantee them access to your body.

Because entitlement to another’s body does not come to life until consent becomes the thing that lets down the barricade and morphs its life into the existence of an okay-ness.

Also written by Dorothy Orina on Feminism:

  1. Femininity
  2. Pain demands to be felt.
  3. A thousand [not so splendid] suns.

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