The Write Thing

There she was, in the middle of a well-known corner, ready to seize her next prey. Glorious, glamorous, golden layers of final touches had passed before the mirror a few moments before, as she was to look her best. Her chosen victim must never suspect, for that is the prerogative of a queen. It would not matter what her counterpart might look like, as long as she was unaware of the game the queen was preparing, backstage, as a last homage to the stolen beauty of younger years. A last glance, an approving nod, and off she went to her meeting.

The chosen one seemed an interesting match. She looked and sounded simple, yet smart enough to be somewhat of a challenge. The queen would have to be clever, act slowly, sell her own version of herself without giving up on a tentative bid. The stakes should always be higher…The adrenaline of this game was in the excitement of the chase, in the fleeting moment when you were onto the hopeless victim, looking into her surrendering eyes. Your prey was lost if she failed to see the real queen, made of alabaster, impenetrable and cold as ice.

For a while, the queen was unsure of the image she was projecting. It was as if her counterpart had a certain wisdom. That would be hard to play by…and yet, breaking that barrier would make the game much more exciting.

The secret of a good chase lies in knowing when to strike. You hit firmly, in the right spot, destabilizing your victim, confusing her into your own mechanism of not being, and drowning her into your delusion. In a delusional state, all beings cling to the future and become devoted to the instigator of the farce. No move is made without the queen’s consent. She rules, uncontested and ruthless, and she commands everything, but soon she gets bored. If there is no challenge, there is no fun. Once your victim feels the passion you infused in her veins, once she feels your soft, dark, confusing kiss, she falls into an abyss. That is when they capitulate to your power. You, the queen, are now in control, with all the weapons at your disposal to hit the final blow. The sentence is called when you are ready. And now you are, because your victim is hopeless.

Satisfied with your victory, having exercised the power of destruction you so laboriously achieved, you leave her bed a renewed woman. Upon your return home, you turn on the lights and look at the worldly possessions that decorate your flat, savoring each of their memories, breathing in as you softly touch the pictures on the mantelpiece. Another battle has been won against yourself. Someone has just paid the price of feeling something for you, the majestic queen. There is a full moon outside, and your neighbors have turned off their lights. It is late, and the summer breeze should be good to sleep to. You take off your clothes, and your naked body goes inside the big empty bed you have persistently refused to share.

There may be some thinking to do, but you do not want to know. There will certainly be a tomorrow to look forward to, and a new victim to find. The story might be repeated, with more or less variety. Regardless of the day ahead, you sigh with relief, rejoicing in your hard-earned eternity as the blood gradually dries in your hands. You feed from it, as the scorpion that cannot help its nature. Once more, her majesty was able to conquer before she died.

It has been complicated to keep my blog up to date these days. It has not been a question of time, as time is something we make, not something we have. It has not been a question of willingness, as I really wanted to do it, and grew more impatient the longer I saw the Nov. 22 date of my last posting setting the distance between my life and my recording of it. It may have been a question of why I write a blog… is it a megalomaniac disorder I am gradually developing or is it a need to access myself everywhere (assuming with total honesty that the bulk of my readers are occasional searchers for funny words or spam crawlers)? I still can’t decide, although it could also be that I feel more comfortable writing on a software-based pad than on a white sheet of paper. I don’t know, I am still scared of a feuille blanche, and less so of a machine that, at the push of a button, will draw me away from my own creation until I decide to bring it back by opening a browser. Maybe blogs simply require some looking after, unlike notebook pads where we doodle disconnected ideas that we are not necessarily forced to contend with in public, because we may as well have decided to keep the whole thing locked in a secret cupboard. But then, the anonymity of a blog helps a lot when it comes to throwing little messages in a bottle out into a wide ocean. There is no way of doing so on paper…paper is black or white. Either you keep it hidden from public view, or sooner or later you claim authorship of even your most disgusting piece of work.

Assuming that, despite my ping-pong monologues with myself, I still ignore the reason why I have not written before today, the simple act of seeing my fingers rush across the computer keyboard brings some relief. December has started, and I have a new entry in my blog. It is a metatext of myself, but that is what my life is, so it is as far as I can go today. In the meantime, I will be thinking of typical year-end reflections to populate a new posting with, and will probably come back before Christmas, to sing another song of myself.