The cosmos is conscious. Consider. You are a conscious being. You are part of the cosmos.
I wonder how anybody can look on the universe as something apart from themselves. Is it the great “out there”, and the timid creature behind our eyes and between our ears? Is it two things, or one?
It cannot be two or three or a great number. The cosmos is one thing, and we are part of it.
We are not our bodies. We may lose a limb and remain the same. We can lose our eyes and all our senses, and yet the essential “I” is there unchanged. Perhaps a little uncomfortable, but still able to use insight, reason, emotion to contemplate the world.
We are not our minds; the chattering thoughts of our brains. We are not our memories, skills, emotions. All these come and go. We forget things all the time, we lose the habits and the ways of our childhood, we fall still in meditation. But we remain, observant.
We are not some vital force. There is no such thing to be found. Life is chemistry and electricity, down to the smallest units. Is a cell alive? If so, what is life? We may discern every function of the cell, and find nothing but chemical reactions and the movement of electrical charges.
In my earliest experience of Sanskrit, I was told that the highest principle was comprised of infinite truth and knowledge. In short, Plato’s realm of forms. The bricks and mortar of the universe, the atoms and ripples of energy are not reality. They come and go, and we may observe their passage, remaining unchanged.
If we can observe something, we cannot be what we observe. We may look at every atom of our embodiment, every chemical reaction, every zing of charge along our neurons. Whatever it is that we are, it is not these islands of flesh and blood that house our awareness.
The best description of consciousness that science can come up with is that consciousness is an “emergent function”. In short, something that cannot be found in the physical world, but is a conceptual entity of some sort.
Yes, but you said there’d be sex
Our awareness of sex is not the physical rubbing together of body parts, nor is it the various sensations that flow in through our sensory organs. Our sense of pleasure, of joy, of love is somewhere within. The words I write are not the body parts, nor are they anything physical that can be stacked up and arranged to provide an orgasm, or a sigh of satisfaction, or the realisation of affection and love. We, as readers, do that all by ourselves, and my stories merely shine a light on the path to bliss.
As a writer, I cannot somehow put the touch of a lover, or the tickle of their tongue, or the sensations of our most intimate parts, or the bliss and glory of release into these dark alphabet characters against a white background. No matter how I arrange them, they are not the real thing. I can do no more than put thoughts into the mind of my reader.
If you and I are sharing the same thoughts, and my thoughts are of all those things mentioned above — as they so often are! — then we can come together. Even if as writer and reader we are on different sides of the planet, or different periods of time, or even (if my words endure past my physical death) in different states of corporeal existence.
After all, the Kama Sutra still has a measurable effect on living people, and none of those who created or inspired it may be found on in the phone book, let alone Facebook or Tinder.
Writing about sex requires honesty and intimacy. It has to be more than mere description. It has to be written with a calculation for how it runs along other thoughtlines. And it has to have its own personal effect.
You may be sure that when I write about sex, I do so in a certain dampness, and once the words are on the paper, I go off and do something about that.
If the writing has no effect on the writer, then how is it going to have any sort of effect on the reader? What sort of audience are we writing for if we think readers are going to be fobbed off by anything less than the real, honest, reality?
Of course, this doesn’t mean that I need to describe everything. I might do no more than direct the thoughts in a certain direction. If I write about the bulge in someone’s trousers or the points in a t-shirt, my reader will supply the details of what might lie beneath, and the effect will be the same.
The images, the thoughts, the effects will be the same.
Just think. The bliss of release will be as real inside your head as it is in mine.
That is my objective. That is why I write erotica. For mutual satisfaction.
Britni Pepper writes erotica for Kindle Direct Publishing. She runs a blog where she reviews erotica, and rambles on about this and that. She may be reached on Twitter and Facebook. This story may contain Amazon affiliate links. Any purchases made from that site may earn me a small commission. Thank you!