Fighting is like sex. Both have the potential to be deeply intimate, but they can also be meaningless and destructive, like a petty argument with no resolution. When done right—when it’s honest, conscious, and with full energy—fighting, like sex, can lead to something profound: intimacy and understanding.

The relationship between fighting and sex is ironically similar, as all dualities are. Dualities exist only because we don't fully understand them—because we’re ignorant. Once we understand, dualities merge and reveal their true nature, which is union.

Sex is survival. It’s creation. Without sex, we cease to exist.

Fighting, taken to its extreme, causes death. Yet somehow, even in the violence of fighting, there’s purpose—something deeper than barbaric bloodshed. There’s meaning, even if it’s hard to see.

Whether I've experienced it myself or witnessed it on screen, this is true.

Have you ever been in a fight with someone—really fought, not just thrown a punch or traded insults? If you get your ass kicked or you kick theirs, the result often leads to an unexpected intimacy. When you truly fight, when you give everything you’ve got, winning or losing doesn’t matter in the end. The bond that forms after is what matters. The chaos transforms into something else, something ordered, something real.

If someone backs down in a fight, they’re not just losing physically; they’re losing respect. But if they keep going—even if they lose—they earn honor. It’s not about the score. It’s about whether they gave everything they had. That’s what counts. In the end, it’s not the outcome that matters; it’s the reputation. The respect you earn from fighting with all your heart, win or lose.

This is why contact sports like boxing or UFC stand out. Competitors trash-talk each other relentlessly before the fight, yet after, they hug it out, almost like lovers. A bond forms in that space—a trust, a mutual respect. That trust is meaningful. It’s earned through shared intensity.

I believe fighting can create friendships, bonds that go deeper than any other kind of relationship. After a fight, you know what that person is made of. You know their appetite, their spirit. And you know that, at the core, they gave all of themselves to it. That’s true intimacy, just like sex.

If you fight someone, and they’re willing to die for the fight, what more do you need to know about them? In that moment, they’ve proven everything. Nothing else matters. How else can you measure someone's true worth?

Fighting, when it's honest, breeds intimacy. Petty fights—like petty sex—don’t resolve anything. They leave you further apart. It’s like a one-night stand. It gets the job done, but there’s no growth. When real fighting happens—when there’s real connection—it leads to intimacy, the kind that builds strength in relationships.

Intimacy takes effort. The more you put in, the more you get out. Vulnerability, honesty, openness—those are the ingredients. And intimacy, when it’s nurtured, grows relationships into something stronger. Without intimacy, what kind of relationship do you have? You can measure a relationship by how much intimacy it contains. The more intimate, the less duality, the more union.

Modern warfare is beyond petty fighting. It’s dissociative. Drones, airstrikes, explosives—technology has removed intimacy from the equation. We can kill at a much higher rate, but without closeness, without human connection, there is no resolve. We’ve stripped away the essence of what it means to truly fight, to truly face someone. Without intimacy, there’s no bond. There’s no union.

When a man is close enough to another to hear their last gasp of breath, to stare into their eyes as he takes their life with a knife, there’s no room for propaganda or dehumanization. The lies about the enemy, about why they’re "bad" or "less than," disappear. In that moment, the truth is undeniable: they’re human. Just like you.

There’s a reason so many soldiers return home with PTSD. It’s because we’re more human than we realize. We’ve treated each other like animals, and it’s the betrayal of that humanity that haunts us. Animals don’t get PTSD—not like this. It’s us, humans, who bear the weight of our actions when we forget the intimacy of our shared humanity.

Sex is more than a physical act—it’s the most vulnerable exchange we can have with another person. It's not just bodies coming together; it’s souls meeting, raw and exposed.

True intimacy in sex doesn’t come from perfect technique or meeting an expectation—it comes from being fully present, fully open. It’s in the moments when we shed our walls and let someone else see us for who we really are, without pretense. In those moments, there’s no mask, no role to play.

When both people are willing to surrender to that vulnerability, the connection goes beyond the body. It’s the trust that builds, the respect, and the bond that forms in those quiet, sacred moments.

Much like in fighting, where everything is laid bare, sex at its best is when both partners give everything they have, when the moment transcends physicality and becomes an exchange of energy, of trust, of humanity. This is intimacy. The kind that leaves no room for pretensions, for duality, for anything less than pure connection. And when it’s shared honestly, it forms the kind of bond that can’t be broken.