There is ecstasy in making another human emotionally unstable. I find. A brain orgasm in drawing someone in close to me, as close as humans can become, the promise of so much, a life together, a family, children, shared dreams, a European car and a pedigree, well-groomed dog whose shit we pick up in biodegradable bags, growing old together and dying in each other’s arms years later.
Then I shatter their world.
“I do not want you.” “I do not love you”. “I don’t know how someone like you thought they could be with someone like me.”
The ecstasy comes - the brain orgasm of power over another, vulnerable, now broken, human.
Most are gutless and deny they have or ever would do it. Their life’s purpose is to look good and not look bad. And never get close to realise the animal that they really are with a neneocortexumped on top like an aftermarket pirated software download.
A small mutation of outliers will admit they do it. And they may love it.
We all do it at some point. Or some such practice that sits warmly in the rubric of manipulation and destruction.
It keeps life entertaining. It keeps life sweet. A beautiful painting is nothing without a taste, a modicum, a savouring of emotional murder