No one asked you whether you wanted to come as a man or a woman, they announced it to you. And they announced it because the planet had need, not you. The sexes are not a detail of biology, nor an accident of nature, they are mechanics. They are the way earthly Substance found to keep life running on this particular ball of clay and water. The human being, our familiar “vessel,” arrived with hardware chiseled by Necessity and software written by the laws of the place. Form follows purpose, always.

Woman came forth enveloping, not weak, but enveloping. She was made to enclose, to protect, to hold steady the environment in which new life would take root. Upon her rests the continuity of the species, and so her body avoids risk as a structural necessity, not as weakness. Her body, her character, the depth of her feeling, all spring from this one command. Man received the other half: expansion, conflict, provision, enclosure. He goes out, he contends with the environment, and he returns. Two tools, one job. That is why a third sex was never needed, the polarity of male and female is sufficient to produce the tension that turns the mill. You do not add a third pole to a battery that works, the game of creation is binary. And to be absolutely clear, because the misunderstanding comes at the same point every time, I am not speaking of hierarchy, I am speaking of function. The hammer is not superior to the anvil. Confuse them and nothing is made. Necessity is not a sexist, it is an engineer, and engineers care about exactly one thing: whether the system works. And note, these things are not so because some bearded God willed it. They are so because that is how the clay was. Form does not descend from the sky, it grows from the earth.

Now we arrive at the part no one wants to hear. Pleasure is not a gift, it is bait. A magnetic pole that pushes two creatures onto each other, against their will, beyond their reason, so that a law which never asked them may be served. Nature pays in advance, in a currency no one refuses, because if we were honest with ourselves, few would take on the work of reproduction without pay. The bait keeps the flow of incarnation unbroken. And it works. For millennia it works. The problem is that bait has an expiration date.
Look where technology is leading: birth is moving steadily toward an ectopic process. The day reproduction no longer passes through two bodies, Hebb’s law enters the room: whatever is not used, fades. The brain does not maintain bridges that no one crosses. If for enough generations pleasure ceases to serve a purpose, it will atrophy like a muscle locked inside a plaster cast. No one will forbid it. It will simply be forgotten. The bait that kept the human being returning for thousands of years will be quietly withdrawn, like a product that stopped selling. Here is the deafening irony: an entire civilization worshipped the bait believing it was the fish. We built poetry, wars, religions, and empires around a chemical reward designed exclusively to manipulate us. It is not a disgrace. That is exactly how bait works: it convinces you that this is the meaning. You believe it. And you never look behind it.

But behind it lies the only thing that matters. Being born a man or a woman cast you onto a particular road, with particular walls and particular openings of light. That road, with all its one-sidedness and its harshness, gave you something that cannot be acquired otherwise: the experience of being a bounded, distinct “I.” That is the prize. Not the body that will rot, not the identities you gathered along the way, all borrowed, all returned to the last gram. What remains, the only thing worth carrying back, is the awareness that this particular spark played this particular role and learned in its own flesh what the word “I” truly costs.
And if you do not gather it? If you spend your life chasing the bait and forget entirely to become someone? Then the spark returns like water to the sea. It pours back into the collectivity from which it came, without individual continuity, without anything that is recorded. You are not punished. You simply did not exist sufficiently. And that, if you have the courage to look it straight in the eye, is a thousand times more terrifying than any hell the human mind ever devised.

In the end you surrender everything. Body, hormones, sex, name, role. All returned. One word remains. Not the one they called you by, not the one carved in stone. What remains is the “I AM.” It is the only passport that carries you through the gate, and no one stamps it on your behalf. You write it yourself, with your life, and it is verified not by the word but by the energy that carries it. The guardians of existence are not deceived. They understand at once whether you speak truth or wear yet another mask.