This is a book I started writing and I’m just giving a flavor for you (First 2 pages). Please give me your comments if you can (please) (There won’t be any more updates on this book)
Book Name: The Sensitive Guy
- Allelopathy: Why rejection was a lifestyle
- Gobble The Greek: Beta among the alphas
- The Angler without the Hook: Choice Virginity
- The Tallest Loser: Why a Brown Man Couldn’t Jump
- All that glitters in not gay: The Straight Man that came out of the Closet
- Chicken Licken – My battle against Anxiety
- Darwin my Darwin: The Beagle of Poetry
- Uncas: Getting married at 38
- Carpe Diem: To the Sensitive Guys Out There
The word Allelopathy is a fusion of two words, Alleon which says “of each other”, and pathos which means “to suffer”. Allelopathy is a biological phenomenon where the chemicals released to the environment by a plant, inhibits the germination of seeds in the surrounding environment. In my life, allelopathy was a lifestyle. I too had enough chemicals in me to inhibit the germination of many a potential relationship, a shy guy who was never the captain of his ship in a graceful gender’s waters. One who looked through a periscope and saw so many aspiring relationships, only for every one of them to be nipped in the bud, at the moment of asking out. Women were an Achilles heel and the Talus bone was like a magnet for arrowheads that could kill the boy in me and the man behind the façade.
Being sensitive, to me, is being in touch with the poetic expressions of your senses. Poetry is an art that is defined by lyrics and lyricism, the words and the flow. I too was poetically inclined to be caught in sensation and the resulting waves that flow through every muscle, vessel, nerve and chamber, could uplift you and devastate you in the same magnitudes. A woman’s touch or smile could make you a launching pad for space travel and at the same time, a woman’s disinterest could make you burrow yourself inside a rabbit hole with Dilantha’s wonderland of dreams and fantasies as the only solace. Making love to a woman was my glass ceiling and the challenge was keeping her interested in your heart until the wedding night, when the body’s magic takes over. It was keeping the fire smoldering without the silhouette of a flame. Combustion was always magical in my head, like a clown that could do many stunts with a woman’s body, and she with yours. I knew Vaudeville was a destination, a long one at it.
I was natural at sensitivity. It was like learning to gaze at the magic of light at childbirth just like any newborn who is sensitized to light at birth. Sensitivity was being in touch with the apex of bliss and the nadir of agony and the many echelons that could give you a good punch on a trampoline or butterflies in all the wrong places. I was never ashamed of my sensitivity – like a short man who gazes at his big feet and winks to himself. I knew I had it big where it mattered – the till that fills with emotions, the EQ, the emotion quotient that will stay with you when you’re in diapers at the end of your journey of life and makes little incursions into memory at those intersections that plant themselves in notorious frequency. Sensitive moments have a long life in them, just like the Tortoises at Galapagos Islands and they are a true wonder of evolution. Darwin knew that when he was collecting specimens in his Beagle and I know too, sensitivity is a strength and not a weakness. It is what makes you jump with joy and sink like an anchor and I was ready for what sensitivity would usher in – the long nights looking at the ceiling, crying with frequency at Nicolas Sparks movies, getting crushed by women so often and finally looking through the pupil of a woman knowing she needs you, she wants you, she loves you, for all you are – and perhaps for what you’re not. It is a collection of lows and highs and you are a collector of sensitive moments, the marbles that never fall off the temple, the playlist that is always ready where it matters, your memorabilia of little joys.
The word paraphernalia in legal nomenclature, means things beyond the dowry. I knew that sensitivity was my paraphernalia beyond my inheritance from god. It was more nurture than nature, although the blueprint of genes would have been the founding foundation for the evolution of sensitivity. The paraphernalia for sensitivity, were a gooey heart, a spontaneous go-go, a melting conscience and the need for emotional turbulence as part of your trans-pacific journey of life. It is long, stormy, yet filled with little ammo for the heart. I knew the paraphernalia for sensitivity would never abandon me. It was like my stash of cocaine that could give me ecstasy or kill me with an overdose and it was always heating on top of the heart’s spoon, perennial, perpetual and alive.
I knew, what a woman wanted in the 21st century. The bad boy for the one night stand, the flamboyant for the glamorous relationship and the provider for marriage. I was none of those. I was a goody two shoes, spontaneous, a little spurred on at serendipitous moments, a man that needed enough petrol in the sensitivity tank for mere survival. Sensitivity was a need; Still a man who would cry more than a woman at the cinema was not bread and butter for the 20 or the 30 somethings women in Sri Lanka. He was either a loser or gay. On occasion, I wished I was gay too, so that I could accompany my-best-girl-pal lingerie shopping and to see her parade the baby dolls at you with no care in the world. That was my only way to Triumph or Avirate with a woman, the Shangri-la to my feverish eyes. (I would finally go lingerie shopping with my wife, a week before my marriage and I realized my plumbing was working fine as I sneaked a look when she wore some lingerie night shorts at a Racecourse shop).