The Engine of Desire
Who could drive a car to his desired destination if he had to elucidate every pump of a piston, every gurgle of fluid and every turn of a cam shaft. I'll tell ya who: nobody, that's who. A nation would stall in its driveways, a world would halt in its ruts and roadways with panicked, ignorant, overwhelmed drivers. "Dammit! I know how to drive this thing," they would scowl at themselves inwardly. Smiling their rictus grins at their neighbors and highway fellows they would sweat and swear at every moment of delay and specifics. A few awkward inches would reluctantly come the way of a lucky few who remembered their high school shop class and driver's ed. But soon most of the drivers would bang their heads on dashboards, their fists on steering wheels and pound their palms on guiltless upholstery. A few would begin to walk sullenly to their destinations. Some would scratch their heads and pop their hoods to stare uncomprehending at the machinery hidden beneath. A great many would grab their cellphones, carrier pigeons and call out for their personal Pheidippides to get word out that dire fate, cruel kismet and a damned unlucky break had stunted their will and broken their spirit. Their appointments, meetings and dates must needs be rescheduled or postponed. Of course their own voicemails, extinct fowl and fabled runners would be intercepted by the messengers of their fellows sending similar warnings.
All this turmoil because instead of letting the cars run themselves with just enough intelligence and forethought to get us where we're intending to go, we substituted our will for their nature.
And yet. . .
Could this be exactly what the crushing majority of us do regarding our natural desires? Instead of allowing the nature of the desire to bring us where we want to go: the fatter bank account, the panties of the ripe-thighed starlet, the dark mahogany desk of the corner office; we believe we must chart the course of every spark and fuel droplet and ooze of oil in our engines to get us to our desired destinations.
The engine of desire is enough! It is sufficient! Our spirits urge us: Simply Want. Press on the accelerator of need to power the engine that will spin the shaft and rotate the wheels to bring us to the glowing palace of certain fulfillment. Steer blithely towards those Grecian columns that speak of wealth and safety and a fatted vault; turn briskly while indicating into the ivory gams of the randy tartlet; and settle into park as you coast into the Cordovan leather appointed director's chair behind the walnut work desk.
Give fuel and the stingiest of navigation to this multi-horsepower beast set at your disposal by the clever gods themselves, and watch each wish of yours materialize as if from hands of prescient and obedient butlers. Take note that even in moments when the bulk of people struggle behind the wheels of cars they powered just moments ago, a select few will ease their way among their fellows wondering what's so hard about this car driving business after all. Their minds will be upon their desire, focused and at ease, while letting the great beast at their disposal of its very nature take them where'er they point it.
Point then the power steering that directs the engine of the beast-Desire towards your most secret and marvelous wish. It will rise before you like the fabled Candy Mountain with it's rivers of gin and gulches of steaks and arroyos of cheese-dipped nachos. Ride on, oh gluttonous brother! We have no judges but our bellies and our more urgent organs. The gods can only smile upon us at our ease, and wrinkle up their brows at our unnecessary struggles.
Remember we are gods who let the force drive flowers through green fuses and manifest desires by the scores each moment. Without a thought, without a hesitation, but to imagine greater pleasures to create.