Black as desire, white as dream.
I am Blackfox with the eyes of a cat. Longing, loving, chasing, never giving up. And I will get my Moon.
Someday.
Unde-s distraiele, unde-s cafelele?
1 month ago
Monday, December 20, 2010
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Dunes of despair
I am walking through the desert of my emotions. Or my emotional desert, if you will.
Here and there, elusive footprints leading to nowhere are blown away by the wind. I tried to figure out the North, but the leaves keep spinning wildly in my imaginary puddles. No compass works here. Be it moral, or otherwise. Which is another thing that I noticed while casually strolling through my desert. This desolate, utterly empty space abolishes all sense of morality. For what is morality but a social construct meant to set cultural guidelines so that we don't end up savagely killing and eating one another? Well, let me tell you, when there is nothing to eat, and alas not even something to kill as far as the eye can see, morality seems rather pointless.
So, as I was saying, this amoral being, me, is treading the sand of an emotional dreamscape. Usually we associate sand with beaches and frolicking in the frothy waves of childlike 'happee'. None of that here. Sand is coarse and insidious, made unbearably hot by a black-eyed sun that sucks all that is living out of you. And I would honestly be terrified of that prospect if there were anything alive left in me. As it is, I merely sneer back at the dunes.
"Too late, love, you will have to satiate your hunger elsewhere. I am as dry and as ruthless as you are. I might decide to set you ablaze and turn you into a sea of glass."
A sea of glass that I would skate over in delicate white dancing shoes that have deadly blades attached. For, you see, I have no compassion left for mirroring surfaces. They are not Dorian's portrait. Why aren't they? Why am I the only one who turns darker everytime I see their reflection whereas they remain the same? I hate mirrors. And I will rasp and grate and dig my blades into the sea of glass until it reflects no more.
You are afraid now, aren't you, you glassy mounds of ...nothingness? For you are indeed the dunes of despair. But it is not mine. Yours.
Here and there, elusive footprints leading to nowhere are blown away by the wind. I tried to figure out the North, but the leaves keep spinning wildly in my imaginary puddles. No compass works here. Be it moral, or otherwise. Which is another thing that I noticed while casually strolling through my desert. This desolate, utterly empty space abolishes all sense of morality. For what is morality but a social construct meant to set cultural guidelines so that we don't end up savagely killing and eating one another? Well, let me tell you, when there is nothing to eat, and alas not even something to kill as far as the eye can see, morality seems rather pointless.
So, as I was saying, this amoral being, me, is treading the sand of an emotional dreamscape. Usually we associate sand with beaches and frolicking in the frothy waves of childlike 'happee'. None of that here. Sand is coarse and insidious, made unbearably hot by a black-eyed sun that sucks all that is living out of you. And I would honestly be terrified of that prospect if there were anything alive left in me. As it is, I merely sneer back at the dunes.
"Too late, love, you will have to satiate your hunger elsewhere. I am as dry and as ruthless as you are. I might decide to set you ablaze and turn you into a sea of glass."
A sea of glass that I would skate over in delicate white dancing shoes that have deadly blades attached. For, you see, I have no compassion left for mirroring surfaces. They are not Dorian's portrait. Why aren't they? Why am I the only one who turns darker everytime I see their reflection whereas they remain the same? I hate mirrors. And I will rasp and grate and dig my blades into the sea of glass until it reflects no more.
You are afraid now, aren't you, you glassy mounds of ...nothingness? For you are indeed the dunes of despair. But it is not mine. Yours.
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