Predator fangs coated in honey

"A black shadow dropped down into the circle. It was Bagheera the Black Panther, inky black all over, but with the panther markings showing up in certain lights like the pattern of watered silk. Everybody knew Bagheera, and nobody cared to cross his path, for he was as cunning as Tabaqui, as bold as the wild buffalo, and as reckless as the wounded elephant. But he had a voice as soft as wild honey dripping from a tree, and a skin softer than dawn." (Rudyard Kipling - The Jungle Books)

Smile your different smiles for me

I think about you and your apple red cheeks and your curious sparkling eyes. I mostly think about you when you smile your different smiles, when you make me giddy with the tinniest twitch of your lips.
And how you glisten. Oh, how you glisten in the peeking sunlight.

She came one day, with strawberries in her hair and reached for the moon, jumping up and down, punishing the earth for not letting her fly. I sat on my branch and I smiled my all-knowing bitter smile. Inside I was mesmerized, spellbound by this new woman-child who came in stomping her feet and demanding everything. I froze in terror for a while.
Then I descended from my tree and studied the little creature who laughed and crinkled with each step she took. She had a silly dress made of bells, tiny bells sewn together for the sole purpose of never letting me sleep peacefully again. I snorted. This can't be it! She can't just waltz in and take over my world. I am Mighty Cat. She will obey my icy stare.
Just as I was about to go back to my place of wise ruling, small liquid diamonds appeared in her big brown eyes. And to my utter dismay, I found that I couldn't go back anymore. I turned around to the sound of her sniffles that threatened to tear holes into my heart. I let her pet me. She smiled.

That day I realized I would never love another more or even as much. I just cannot. It is a metaphysical impossibility. It involves apples.

The cat and the moon

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.

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.

Sometimes the illusion

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.
...with the soul of a crocodile. There is no patch left unscarred. It has become my armour. Isn't it ironic? My scars protect me now, like a chainlink body suit. My capsule of painful reminders, that both protects and imprisons me.

Other times I feel like a leaf in the wind. At the mercy of the elements. Carried to and fro following the whims of various people blowing bubbles of air.

Grab on to me. Hold me tight. Never let me go. Just like you would with quicksand.

Hello, white rabbit. Welcome. My veins are ready. Pour in your magic potion. Give me pleasure. Make me feel special, loved, cherished. Make me feel alive.

Illusion is the first of all pleasures. (Oscar Wilde)

Scarification

Ceilalti lupi m-ar sfasia daca ar sti ca urletul meu e un plans. (Octavian Paler)

I am never going to die. Nothing can kill me anymore. For I am immortal.

We. Together. You. Me. Water.

Tribute to Terence Malick
(Brave New World - one of the most poetic films I have ever seen)

I am in need of words to express my emotions, my feelings, my turmoil, my pain, my rage, my beauty, my triumph. I find none.

Swim in me, my love, and see for yourself.