Garden of Eden: A Cautionary Tale

I would have preferred not to have been born under the shadow of men whose self-worths are directly proportional to their legacies. I would have preferred that their legacies would have consisted of creative accomplishments like music, or architecture, or philosophical discoveries, or mathematical theorems, or timeless novels. I would have preferred that their legacies did not comprise solely of the results of ejaculation.

I would have preferred not to have been the heir to the heir of a philanderer. With that said, I would have preferred that I had become a philanderer myself, never thinking twice about my actions, to be driven simply by the desire to replicate myself into as many me’s as my wife’s/wives’ wombs would tolerate. I would have been proud of my ejaculative accomplishments.

I never would have read a book, or drawn a picture, or written a song. I never would have questioned my existence, goals, or urges. I never would have drawn any conclusions. I never would have sought answers.

I would have lived, ignorantly, happily, in the Garden of Eden. I would have acted according to script and timing. I would have hunted enough to provide, groomed enough to attract, fought enough to own. And when the fruit became ripe, I would have salivated, walked toward the tree and the woman, and ate.

Instead, I doubted the tree and the garden. Instead of either consuming the fruit wholeheartedly or simply walking away, I questioned the woman. I studied but I stayed.

And I realized that the deceit wasn’t in the fruit but in the garden itself.