I don’t know how much scientific ground can hold the speculation to come. But from a fictional and even from a logical approach, I suppose that it puts things into perspective.
Humans make shit because first our minds have tainted their clarity, the vision, the horizons, with nonsense, voids, delusional expectation and despair. Shit followed as a consequence.
We are what we eat. We make what we think.
Excerpt from the novel ‘Astarte, The Adventure’
By Doris Dawn All Rights Reserved ©
Scifi / Romance
A long moment of silence among us. Like a hundred thousand milliseconds or so… Why, may the reader ask herself, this Astarte daemonness won’t speak like anyone in minutes, or seconds? Probably because I am not human… or maybe for the reason that I was born (sorry: fabricated) between the golden layers of a pulsating star where what humans call a “day” amounts to 2.15 milliseconds and what humans call a “year” runs in the binary orbit just around ninety-five earthly days. Boorishly said, I’m a fucking alien!
“How great, Astarte. We knew what to expect from you. Why are you trying to debase yourself in the eyes of the readers?”
This is what I know best, Yvonne darling. Besides, readers are accustomed to live under the times, and I mean this literally. People of this planet, as I’ve noticed, live too much in the past, or in the future, but sadly too little in the present. Ain’t that true, eh?
“It takes a little effort to abstract throughout observable layers of reality before your mind can fathom The Present.” Speaks Beatrice while approaching Yvonne with a hug. “Come here, Yvonne, I wish to embrace you, to wash your tears, to comfort your soul.”
“You have never told me about your death, Beatrice. How funny. We sang together, we played pétanque, we danced and dreamed together. I even made a couple of fantasies with you… Oh my, and now you tell me that you were dead, shot in the heart, but resurrected and very alive, as anyone can see. Plus you overpower me (us) with this idea of being God’s wife. What if my mischief towards you (not knowingly) would turn against me? What if?”
“Oh, you lovely little thing. This ‘what if’ is harming your soul more than anything. God loves you, the same way as He loves me. If He’d love me more than you, then He’d love you less than me. Do you think that He can love less?”
I stare at them and try to be them, as Kronos told me to try. Thus my mind associates them with two Vestal virgins. They have to be technically virgins, right?…
“We are! Where are you heading with your daemon mind, Astarte?”
Just playing with some thoughts. Please don’t hurt me if I’ll go rambling too far astray. Promise?
Very well then. Look, this Vesta gal used to be called the goddess of the hearth by the Romans. Hestia was her Greek name. What intrigues me is that I know of all the inhabitants of different pantheons. I’ve met them in person after birthing some of them, or after delivering their parents. We were family. Or maybe that we still are, if they are alive in the lesser dimensions beneath those black decks, or holes. Dunno. My huge problem is that I’ve never encountered one like Vesta, or Hestia. A virgin goddess. Never ever in my twelve billion years of existence, to speak like a boor… Intriguing, don’t you think?
My two virgin friends exchange glances. Holding hands seems to amply amuse them.
“Kronos has been a virgin until you jumped around his waist. A naive but wise daemon. He is more experienced now, once you’ve sexed him in. It was the fabric of your character that he could not grasp, before, and that had left this universe fall into the wrong hands. Our ancestors called you the goddess of sex and war. To our modern minds, you’d be the expression of liberty and struggle. Your kind of liberty needs a conflict to shine against. Your light needs darkness. Your day needs night. This is how you’ve managed to conceive the abomination into existence. By your little wits, Madame goddess. It is your ego that makes you think that you can change the world. But you brought nothing into it and you will take nothing out of it. The world is perfectly made, beyond you, us and this universe that we can see and feel.”
How could I understand what you’re telling me? I’m no virgin but the whoring whore. How to hope? I can’t be you! I was never meant to be you. Kronos wasn’t speaking literally to me. Metaphorically maybe. Teach me how can I hope. Please. My sarcasm is gone. My sons and daughters are dead.
“I died and I was fixed,” said Beatrice.
Yes, you did. And yes, He fixed you. But you’re a virgin. I am not.
“You are pregnant, for God’s sake!” Comes Rebecca with an echo rumbling down the caves of darkness. “Get your fucking act together, you nincompoop. Don’t you dare to discharge your depressions upon us. We don’t need your shit. Man up!”
Shit? What shit? I have no shit. Or is this a scheme to humble me? Very well then, some metaphorical shit. I’ll accept that.
“Wait a minute,” intervenes Beatrice, “may I ask you to turn around please.”
Oh, what a polite command she has given to my feet. My body turns around.
“Bend over please.”
I feel like hosting a new, albeit so tiny, hypothalamus that now controls my visceral nervous system. The voice of Beatrice is sublime. Her domination runs through my veins like the water of a mountain spring. A sensation of inside washing. Think that I’m on the verge of a new orgasm… Let me… Oh… let me… come… please…
“By no means, my desperate slave. Do you enjoy my commands? Good. Let your spirit relish under my voice.”
But I have no spirit, dear.
“Bend over, a bit more please. Now distance your legs… More… Four meters more, please… Good. Now grab your butt-cheeks with your fingers and pull to sides.”
Euphoric to drink her every word and syllable and vowel, I present my backside cleavage to Rebecca, Beatrice and Yvonne. Can I come now? Allow me to orgasm! I beg you!… No answer. No one speaks to me… Forty thousand and ten milliseconds later… Hello! Girls… Sisters… Hello… Answer me! Will you?
They won’t. What should I do? How about that orgasm? Please!… Nothing. Okay. Ten more milliseconds out of courtesy… And my own hypothalamus is back online. Woo…wooo…whoahhha-ha-haaaaaaa… I drenched myself. Squirting, furtive torrents find their ways among the cracks down the granite. Woo hoo… I stand up on my feet, doing some jumping to feel my muscles again… Wow, that was good! What a new thing to me!
“Calm down, Astarte. The earth is quacking. Will you stop jumping?”
And I stop. What other choice do I have? Halting myself, I get a glimpse at what my little mighty sisters are doing down there on the platform.
Oh my, oh my. Beatrice is bending over, the way I was a minute before. Her beige camouflage uniform of the French Foreign Legion thrown near the shining piles of teared diamonds, she is naked! Well, not completely because of the golden top that embraces her torso, keeping that full spectrum ethereal radiation inside her.
The other two, Yvonne and Rebecca, are pulling her butt-cheeks to sides with infinite curiosity.
“There’s no such thing as infinity, Astarte, dear.”
Says Beatrice to me, giggling. Hey! What are they doing to your butt?
“Nothing. Just peeping in total disbelief.”
I see Rebecca playing her finger up and down, up and down. Mouth open, eyes even bigger, in screaming muteness.
Resigned, Yvonne speaks.
“She has no butthole! You have no butthole. What are you?”
I am… Well, sounds like a rhetorical question. I’d better allow them some space. There’s a moment to seize here. The little stinkers, as I’ve been calling them ever since sniffing the odors of Doris and Don, have a butthole. That is what sources the stench. In the worlds I had lived in, for eons after eons, there were no buttholes. Not even the concept of a butthole. Therefore, addressing the more pedantic readers, I must meander a bit around the anatomy of a daemon’s digestive system. Our bowels have a beginning but no ending. We have no appendix and no rectum because these are one. Our colon is circling the solid matter as long as it takes to break it down to soluble elements that are absorbed by the bladder and peed away.
Looking at Rebecca, she’s still scanning her fingers tired in the quest for the missing butthole, I learn that redeemed humans have similar bodies to us, daemons. Even if in miniature.
“Our anatomies may match, Astarte. Just the powers differ. So there’s still hope for you. Cheer up!”
I will, Beatrice, I will. Oh, and thank you for that outstanding meta-orgasm. It wasn’t actually an orgasm. Definitely something way better.
“How do you know that?”
Because shortly after distracting your attention from my nervous system, I couldn’t help myself. Begging to fuck myself. I induced an orgasm. It felt like low voltage goose bumps. Tried a second, longer, one. Meh… Forced a third, synthesizing all the hormones I could get. Double meh… No orgasm I have had in my life can equal the joy you’ve given me today.
“Call it love, if you wish.”