Departed: The Obituary Of An Arrival

Orgasms are beautiful.

Perhaps that is their cruelty.

They arrive wearing the face of creation,

while carrying the quiet certainty of a funeral.

A beginning disguised as a goodbye.

Ask the foetus.

And it is the first miracle it will ever know.

The reason there is a heartbeat where once there was silence.

The first evidence

that two bodies, for one impossible moment,

created something that would outlive them.

But ask the woman before she knew she was a mother.

Before her body became a home.

Before her future acquired a heartbeat.

Ask the woman who existed only for herself in that moment.

And perhaps it was different.

Not creation.

Not a miracle.

A goodbye.

The funeral of a pleasure that would never again exist alone.

Because knowledge is cruel.

Some things die the moment they acquire meaning.

Perhaps that is why the first orgasm

is always followed by the death of something unnamed.

Not innocence.

That word is too convenient.

Perhaps it is simply the death of possibility.

The death of not knowing.

Or perhaps worse: the death of an orgasm that never arrived.

A grave for a future

that never learned how to become a memory.

Because every orgasm is an ending.

Some end in emptiness.

Some end in creation.

Some disappear so completely

that we spend years 

trying to recreate a few seconds

that already buried themselves.

But all of them leave something behind.

A moment that cannot return.

A version of ourselves that cannot continue.

A small death we willingly enter

because, for a brief instant,

it feels indistinguishable from life.

Maybe that is why we gave it such a beautiful name.

Orgasm.

A word borrowed from creation

for a moment that resembles a funeral.

A few seconds where the body celebrates

the exact instant something is already leaving.

Perhaps language was never meant to reveal what things are.

Perhaps it was invented because humans needed a way

to seduce themselves into agreeing to their own endings, 

to decorate the things they were never strong enough to face naked, 

to make their own disappearances sound voluntary.