I am utterly amused by this endeavor of mass sex appeal that we are all behooved to make.
For the pains we take are puzzling, considering the futility of it all.
It is also quite ironic how we ultimately realize that after one-too-many failures that we must fashion a philter that attracts more flies than we can catch, if only to increase our chances of catching one overall.
And yet, often we simultaneously conclude that the single person who we desire to snare most is unlikely to be fooled by the glimmer of our sugar water—that tepid solicitation designed to beguile and appeal to all.
Hence, it would seem that it is only chance and circumstance that offer a resolution—the random solution to our salacious schemes, the happenstance answer to our dreams—albeit, we-that-are-in-charge of our destinies know better—for we know that “things don’t just happen,” coincidence is rarely coincidental, and we are absolutely instrumental to the realization of our individual fates—be it in commerce, in life, in gnosis or alas, in love.
So, is there no hope? Are we all enraptured in the same genetic catch-22 that has us chasing a phantom of elusive satisfaction? Will attraction always be a mere lure, the bait that ensures the bite, but rarely is the morsel that makes the meal?
Must I continue to wield the wand that woos the masses, when all I really want is to see that singularly special sparkle in your eye?
Must I?
Must I?
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