So, what I gleaned after browsing the link is that the supposedly pedestrian occasion of two people meeting and sharing a moment of mutual attraction has been elevated to some grand drama, raptly watched by numerous people. Every new development in the burgeoning relationship is cause for speculation, each tiny step toward the inevitable consummation warranting another baited breath. Sort of strange, no? The world is filled with wonders both horrible and lovely, there are miracles both blacker than pitch and brighter than the sun and yet, despite both Hell and Heaven stretching before him the every-man turns away from both in favor of the Garden's simple beauties.
Now, why is that? Romantic relationships are supposedly meaningless in the grand scheme of things, which is the purported reason why the ugly and unwanted are demonized for resenting the fact they'll never experience them. So what if women find you repulsive, what does it matter if you'll never share a kiss let alone have a family? These are trivial things, right? There are ideas to meditate upon, philosophies to develop, talents to perfect. We have the poor to feed, the needy to support. Given that we can all of us become saints and bleed our way into Heaven, the fact we resent we'll never experience something so meaningless as sexual affection proves just how base and petty we are. Sex is nothing more than the sensation and smell of sweating skin, a wedding simply an absurdly expensive party where two people pledge to love each other until one of the two becomes bored or dissatisfied, parenthood a trick perpetrated by Nature upon animals clever enough to know their going to die but too dim to recognize or too cowardly to accept that Death eventually swallows each and every bloodline and renders it meaningless.
When we incels cry out in agony because we're too repulsive to be loved, our critics demand we cast our eyes toward idealistic Heaven or down to the depths of nihilistic Hell. Yet, given their druthers, those who despise us do neither and would sooner choke on their own words than listen to them. Wanting to see something captivating, they eschew both the Firmament and the Inferno, the sublime joys of angels and the excruciating agony of devils, in favor of the supposedly meaningless experiences of their fellow man. If they're nominally religious they might mutter the name of some saint who's sacrificed what they never will or tremble at the thought of some demon demon's misery but, when all is said and done, the former will never be anything more than a fleeting dream and the latter just a nightmare. Both Heaven and Hell are nothing more than fantasies for a man who is privileged enough to hold a woman who wants to be held by him because a man like that actually lives as human beings were meant to and has no need to aspire to the rank of angel or swear himself to the legions of devils.
Heaven, Earth and Hell all have their unique wonders reserved for those born into each. Men and women watch the birth of a new relationship with such interest because the vast majority of them know first-hand how magical that experience is and want to, in some small way, recapture it. A person could witness the planets shudder and fall from the firmament, or the fires of Gehenna could climb high enough to scorch the space between the stars, and neither would be as significant as remembering the first time he smiled at a woman and the woman smiled back.
When we repulsive things who will never experience this magic make ourselves nuisances by mourning too loudly, our supposed brothers and sisters lie to us in a desperate attempt to choke us into silence and beat the tears from our faces. They assure us we're not really missing out on anything significant. Performing their cheap slights of hand, they'll wave their tattered scarves before our hideous faces and will accomplish one of three tasks. Ideally we hideous things will become angelic, our tortuous forms rectified by the brilliance of our spirits. We'll adopt puppies, volunteer at homeless shelters, and make the world a better place because we aren't distracted by the purportedly minor affairs of the human beings worthy of being loved. At worst we'll become vicious devils, which isn't beyond the realm of possibility because, lamentably enough, even the most skilled magician fucks a conjuration up every now and then. But that's not really so bad, is it? Though there's the tiniest chance people may die, there are wildly better chances the victims won't be people our sorcerer knows. In the very worst case scenario, our incompetent magician will be provided opportunities to display the magnitude of his virtue in direct proportion to how many false tears he's able to force from his dry eyes and the number of words of condemnation he can vomit up from his pinched throat.
But, in reality, what will most likely happen is that the ugly thing will simply vanish, evaporating in a cloud of crimson steam. Our magician will wave that bloody bit of smoke away without a second thought to continue watching the human passion play, knowing from first-hand experience that even his most elaborate illusion pales in comparison to its visceral beauty.
