Description of a Hunger

LIKE DIVINE INTERVENTION Tender, Juicy, Tasty

SUCCULENT IS A WORD you use when you think of something tender, juicy, tasty. But it leaves a lot to the imagination, depending on what you’re thinking. It is as if it is inducing you to indulge yourself, to free yourself from any prejudices, allowing you to stay afloat from your own undoing, setting yourself on fire with that unbridled energy. It might be a big word, a rare term, because it sounds so brave, sensual, dramatic, firm to the ears, while it leads you to go all the way, without minding such consequences. That’s how awesome, how encompassing, how gripping, naked, succulent is. Perhaps you have never thought about the prospect of using it as a tributary to that intense, overflowing understanding you now have, since you have considered it superficial, soulless, lacking in moderation, narrow, secular, but far from treating it as a mere declaration, you have always felt its undulation, like an uneasy spirit on its way to immortality. I never gave much thought to it. I was one of the many who would pamper this restless thought constantly, carelessly, always failing to make an impression, something that would have created a lasting, significant effect on someone else’s consciousness. Who wouldn’t want to have that tenderness eternal, that tight, nervous hug, that slow caress, that quick separation of such breath after a delicate kiss? Who wouldn’t want that juicy thing to waste, something that would put a spark in your mind and a lasting taste in your mouth? And that’s all you need to have. If it gives you power, why hold back? If it makes you smile, why hide it as a dirty secret? If it frees you, why treat it like shit? If it makes you happy, why stop? Succulent is not just a word or a definition in some old book, much less a gibberish on a foreign tongue. It is a stimulant, something that we secretly crave, the very thing we want when we wanted to get the best out of every incident, every encounter, every confrontation, a situation where you let yourself be drowned with its instincts, with its innuendos, with its intrusions, and yet you come out alive, living, along with that unmitigated force only those who are not afraid, who are not even aware of, are capable of feeling it. You don’t go through the day without it. And it is not just a one-time thing. It’s always been a part of you, an integral aspect of your composition. It grinds from within outward. It only becomes prominent when you’re experiencing some form of transition, a realization you’re not in control with, yet you’re fully aware of its urges, its unearthly calling, its excitement, its reason for being, an inspiration that knows no bounds. Some call it genius, gorgeous, germinal, a flash of light, the accumulation of all beauty, the arrival of that gift, a scarlet butterfly on your back, a cream cheese to your macaroni, the trailing summation of that wild perfume on your collar. Is there any reason for us to speculate even further? The hounds of heaven are lodged in this provocative sound. It never runs dry, it tastes good as the years grow, and it renders a thought that will blow your mind away.