A man’s happiness is not tied to any one fellow man neither is it ever dependent on the figure, cooking or education of his woman. It is also not ever in the material acquisitions he makes to show to his peers and the woman that has his attention but in the conquest of that which dares him.
They are the physical and intangible proof of his being as a man, the unsolicited imposition of society and tradition, the challenges he surmounts on his way as he climbs to the top of the pile of his fellows, all out to prove that they ARE INDEED MEN.
His woman, his obscenities of SUVs, the monstrosities of his houses and the money in the bank, stolen, duped, taken from others weaker than him. It is the explanation for the animal in him, an irredeemable creation of the same society that disdains him in hope that he will be more human.
Only higher intellect, stunning events and a woman forged in grace can remold him. Otherwise, he is beyond the redemption of imported religion or the same society that created him. That, is the man, the scented beast, the one who must dominate, conquer, subdue. He is the creation of the same culture that created him.
Bimbo Manuel…Musing.
