The Definition of “Man”

I feel this visceral longing for the heated weight of a body coiled around mine. Psychologists coin this biological need: skin hunger, which is exacerbated by the pandemic. Though skin hunger is superficial to what I need. My need has another name, a name that makes many shudder in fear of its relentless gravity — intimacy. I crave intimacy, the intimacy I lack. A year is too long.

I am a physically expressive woman. I need a ‘man’, a three-dimensional flesh-and-blood human, to satiate this desperate, savage craving, not another zoom call, facetime, or text relationship.

However, my ‘need’ might be a case of my soul confounding the definition of ‘man’.

Language

Language is a social construct, arrangements of letters and rules. Language is mutable, ever-evolving, as we are. The soul (assuming such a thing exists) doesn’t speak in social constructs. It feels and knows and simply is. Congruent with humanity’s tendency to organize chaos, we impose language onto these emotional experiences to understand the human condition.

Context

Now, this ‘intimacy hunger’ intersects with my freshly upended life. I relocated to the other side of the country, half by choice, half by force, to pursue my life’s ‘purpose’ of becoming a full-time writer.

Here I am, pursuing my passion, alone in a new city, with no friends, community, or support. Just as quarantine restrictions are lifting and tearful reunions are abounding, I am miles away from anyone with whom I want to rejoice. The career transition is slow. Financial woes seem to sneak into my weekly contemplations more than ever. Basically, this ‘new year-new me’ is not progressing as I expect; life seldom does.

In the throes of existential dread, I receive a rejection email from a publication. I feel empty, unfulfilled.

After watching the Disney film Soul, I question the validity of my life’s ‘purpose.’ Am I meant to write? Does the soul acknowledge such a calling? Is this another social construct and the folly of human hubris? Or am I severely in need of endorphins and a passionate affair?

When I am inconsolable, I open a book. Words pacify me. I open a recent addition to my bookshelf, The Book of Human Emotions. The book seems ironic and fitting for my volatile mental state. The book is an encyclopedia of words traversing all languages and cultures that attempt to describe emotions’ indescribable experience. I open the book to a random page, carrying with me the childish superstition that if I put my ‘intention’ onto the book to ‘reveal’ some wisdom in a strike of divine intervention, it will.

Manifestation is the vogue belief for the soul in turmoil. I don’t believe that the cosmic universe ‘speaks’ or ‘guides’ humanity how the cult of manifestation proclaims. However, I acknowledge that ‘manifestation’ is new-age nomenclature for a brain hack to trick your subconscious mind into recognizing opportunities and patterns.

The page I open in the book is the word ‘Man.’ Okay, ‘universe,’ you have my attention. The description is not what I expect:

Definition: “Man”

Start a new career. Move to a different city. Become a writer or learn to play the violin. It’s often hard to explain why we might want to do something like this, only that we experience a profound calling, a feeling that we must. In Hindi, this deepest level of wanting is called man (a colloquial shortening of the Hindi word for intention or longing, manorath). Like the hunger felt before you know what you want to eat, man is always there waiting to form itself into desire… Sitting somewhere between head and heart, man is a visceral yearning backed up by the recognition that what we desire reflects our innermost self…

I manifested a word pun. That’s precious.

Closing the book, I know, with absolute clarity, the ‘universe’ has a dark sense of humor.

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This post was previously published on Medium.

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