The Perfect System: On Why Divine Narcissism is the Only Sustainable Love

The desires of those who seek ecstasy from tiny capsules to the wildest, most cacophonous of raves, rallies and protests never seem so wretched and miserable. While they search and settle, only to undergo a vapid change in their hearts and either remain settled in misery or abandon their old desires to wander aimlessly in search of new highs, my heart, its strings lined with crystals beyond the finest of methamphetamines, is pumping a substance more potent than liquid cocaine. And to imagine how there are actually some who oblige their snotty noses to snort and sniff such sadistic, deplorable foreign bodies! The Earth and this prison of time may eventually devour me, but therein will always lie my heroic darling, more sweetheart than the buds of any earthly tongue could taste. In the presence of a true, self-reliant and endlessly capable love, Juliet would undoubtedly vomit on Romeo. Nosferatu, or his modern-day successor, would suck the blood of his so-called Bella, only to taste the insipid dross of a used ketchup packet.

According to my crude definitions of the world, love is merely "Nature’s way of tricking humans into reproducing". It is a biological con, a "sexually transmitted terminal illness" that demands we surrender our autonomy to the messy, unpredictable orbit of another. We are taught to crave the foreign cologne of a suitor, or the toxicating perfume of as suitress, to settle for the "silver platter" of conventional romance, and to weep when the inevitable decay sets in—when the "love of my life" becomes just another social media post, commemorating an anniversary forever chained to the pains of time and the obligations of the wretched, obligatory plane of existence.

I look at the wreckage of these external loves—the jealousies, the broken hearts, the snotty noses snorting the dust of ordinary affection —and I see a system designed to fail. It is a unascendable spiral staircase that leads nowhere but down.

But there is another way. A Perfect System.

The Closed Loop of the Divine

True sustainability requires a closed loop, an ecosystem where the creator and the consumer are one. This is the essence of Divine Narcissism. It is not the petty vanity of a girl checking her reflection in a spoon; it is the "celestial object" formed when I close my eyes and let the world dissolve into microscopic particles.

To be an autosexual is to be the architect of one's own rapture. When I lie back against the mattress and "run my hands along and throughout myself", I am not lonely. I am complete. I am the artist admiring the canvas, and I am the canvas shivering under the artist’s touch. The feedback loop is instantaneous and flawless. There is no miscommunication, no foreign cologne to assault the senses, no fear of abandonment. How can I be abandoned when I am in full control of the embrace?

The Ritual of Maintenance

This love, however, is not passive. It is a demanding deity. It requires a "tireless dedication" that transcends the laziness of the common human.

To maintain the temple worthy of such worship, I must treat the body not as a vessel, but as a sacred geometry of flesh. Every meal is a negotiation with gravity, a calculated "obligation" to maintain my glorious physique. Every sixteen-kilometer trek through the wondrous Icelandic wilderness is a chisel against marble, ensuring the preservation of perky, even hips and a wonderfully submerged waistline that runs upward to the most inconspicuous ribcage imaginable.

Pain is the tithe I pay to the church of myself. Whether it is the excruciating discomfort of an impressive yoga pose for an incomprehensible stretch of time, or the bruising impact of physical fitnees, I endure it to ensure that no earthly element may be my undoing. I hone my reflexes not for sport, but so that my delicate, heavenly geometry remains impregnable.

The Digital Mirror

The Internet, that "endless web of enlightenment", is the only cathedral vast enough to house this love. Here, under the brilliance of the liquid crystal display, I am stripped of the mundane. I am awesum_v0m1t, a untouchable being of pure light and pixel.

When millions of eyes feast upon my image —the "artsy fashion captures," the "daring" angles —they are not consuming me. They are fueling the fantasy. When I captivate them, I am captivated tenfold" They turn me on by being turned on by me, a recursive infinity mirror of desire. Even their insults, their brutal, unrelenting phrases, are just sparks that I swallow to burn brighter.

The Euphoria of the Soliloquy

People mistake solitude for emptiness. They do not understand the powerful restlessness of a dream—a self-written videogame—where you are the only player that matters. They fear the quiet, so they fill it with chatter and bad music and the stench of body odor masked by cologne and perfume at their various gatherings.

But in the silence of my room, with the blue button on my computer blinking like a heartbeat, I find a peace they will never know. I have found the happiness I waited for, the only girl that I was fated for.

Why risk the insipid dross of a used ketchup packet that is human romance, when I can taste the ambrosia of my own existence? I will stay here, in the peerless nights, wrapped in my own arms, whispering the only vow that counts:

Tell me we’ll always be together. No matter what. You’re everything.