The keks of all time...
You don't need modification as much as strengthening. You've built yourself most ecclectically, without even realising what imposing edifice you'll become. No one lives comfortably within yourself, not even you, not yet. Your thing's entirely disjunct from the common product of banal beings. Evidently you did crib from others, the ones admired, or at least appearing to be admired by some majority, but you cribbed derisively and went with deliberate stylistic contradiction. You like being the most sought after, and you know quite well whom to lure within you. This isn't to say you lure victims, to be consumed instinctually and directly, with the guile-less naturalesse of the black widow ; but beings to whom you invoke the impredictable and whom you beg to help you with something or the other around the house. Them you need, to steal unspoken ideas, plans they've not yet managed to write down, things they'll confess to you because they feel happy inside you.
The very few who actually felt at home within you were also the only ones who helped you tear down walls to obtain in their place large, luminous windows, trained on life, and within which to be, in turn, acclaimed by the crowd.
You used to do everything behind the cover of artificial lights, for the unspoken fear the light of day might bring out imperfections unknown. You used to lie about loving, about being good, about being wonderful. Being as expressive as you are, you were believed. You made people stumble on the stairs among your floors, not necessarily to laugh at them and their involuntary slapstick, but to be begged for help. You love causing your help be sought, because you know best how all-digesting dependency can get...
(I still haven't quite understood whence such need to let inside all sort and manner of small creatures exlaiming "wow"'s so priceless to you...)
When the traffic in your vestibule comes to an end, you climb your soul floor and seek love among forgotten rooms. Others' lovers seem more accessible, because it's not as if you'd come in the main door, nod to the clerk and ask for the item in the window, try it on and pay for it. It'd be so earthling-like, so fucking boring for you...
You can love cleanly a woman even if you obtain her through maximal felony, although, again, even you realise it's just special effects.
The relationships you break into, confounding your friends, sending, under their very eyes, love letters written in eyeliner to the loves of their life, last about as long as the erection, which, as a general rule lives longer and more pleasantly for you during planning than during consummation.
You're an expert at taking within women to be kept preorgasmic for years, and these you call friends. That you know they're dying for you clads you in the nonchalant perversity of the man who, while fucking the mother, locks eyes with her pubescent daughter spying from behind a curtain. But these you keep in the salon, to converse superficially. They're women-lolis -- you suck them like a strongheaded child, they melt, become passe, leaving in this behind for you a pleasant taste...
Others you'd take to your bedroom (many times you pick in the dark, without bothering to take in all the details) but on the way there it occurs they're not rather... themselves. Then you bend them over the balustrade and consume them right there, without scruple, without guilt, with splooge that drools desire.
The stair which climbs to your intimate floor is admired by so many -- made as it is of legs of beautiful women, widely open with dedicated earnestness, polished with tars pressed out of women whose hearts you marked with red irons. The beauty of the stair consists in the expressivity of the women, and in their cries of passion covering up the creaking of the wood. In those beautiful rooms of your soul few women make it, and not all as lovers. Some remain for a long time...
From up there one hears no screams nor glances garters, for on that stair... even you take off your shoes at the end.i You want many women, mostly to make sure the stair's solid enough for the chosen one you will eventually carry across, so she doesn't touch even with her feet what's sordid in your being.
The room in which your soul will sometime wed is locked, you alone hold the key, although you vaguely recall there might've been a copy made, lost sometime, in the world ending howl of the coming Fates, who found you only very late. It is then possible some woman finds it and comes by herself inside ?! No, such is not possible, because you await no one, you are the seeker, not the locked in. Doubt must fortwith be framed and put on display on your own hall's walls, lest you discover one day you had fallen unpredicted. For shame! (Well, you repeat this to yourself each morning, after which you smile satisfiedly to yourself from all available mirrors.)
No woman tied to that stair can go any further, you keep repeating. And yet, some whom you picked in passing but never stopped to look at made you unknowingly carry them to the very threshold of that one room. It's true, you couldn't open for them, but you did give them your best perspective, did you not ? You have a most interesting "dwelling", such that it haunts after visiting. God, how well you know this. How much you rely on your charm, how well it works on almost any being, how easy for you, to want, and to get what you want, whatever it may be. The lured will gladly give ; whoever comes in admires the decorations, wonders at the manner in which light enchildens your smile and takes pride in the tests required of them to reach your bedroom : they must walk on a wire, through a long hallway, with perfect posture, else they won't ever reach the haysack you sleep on -- by the way, what do you say when they ask why haysack where a normal bed would go ?
Whoever manages to reach as far as the library is aped by the beautiful statue with a respectable erect penis is to be found among the very stories of the world, as if you wanted all the literary characters of all the books know of your daring! Yeah, the library, for you like building out of words the castle of any relationship, and the statue is there to open mouths. Really, before women started showing up you had built all your walls out of books, provisionally.
Everyone coming in for the first time forms naturally the impression (an impresson you don't usually bother to disabuse them of) that they're seeing the whole thing, that they're taking the grand tour. If they knew how many rooms you avoid, how many are covered behind heavy curtains, in how many you don't even wish to enter yourself! They're not all disordered or foul smelling, some are truly wonderful, you simply see no business there, not for now...
There's nothing about this house you need demolished, you just need a few items consolidated. You've had moments when you overdid the self-distrust. I know you greatly need the windows always open into the street, I know you greatly need to be seen naked, clad in the nudity of the nude women of your youth. There's room for some whitewashing a wall here and there, filthy more out of rebeliousness than true conviction. The stair could take some work, as the number of women just keeps increasing. There may be need of some objects essential to everyday living, as you've lost the trite from view, too busy with the overwhelming spectacle of your instincts. And you could use a maid.
Let me apply to be your maid. The maid of your "house" should be, counterintuitively, the most important woman in your life, the only one allowed free passage among your thoughts, to put them in order, the one who'd wash and air your mind and tell you always what you're out of, what needs to go on the list... a servant girl... ever since I've met you I'm learning everything there is to know about cleaning. Call me over and I'll show you what I can do. I don't go searching through drawers nor do I steal valuables, at the most I might ask permission to admire them. I'd like to ask though to not have to wear the same maid uniform the other women wore who cleaned the floors of your life. I already have some notions of how to go about cleaning the grand stairwell, all you must do is trust I won't boobytrap the boobies.
I live across the street. I see you every morning naked, with your windows wide open. I do not show myself, it'd make you smile. I study you. I count the women you carry in at night, I circle the ones that manage to earn the right of opening a window for you in the morn. I know your fearful visage when you're alone, and I've seen you cry so many times after humiliating a woman that just left. I've seen all your masks, one day you left the window open even in the attic. Those stairs you have to climb, by yourself, every morning, to choose whom you wish to be that day. I believe three days in the last year you lived without mask. Always the same woman visited. Only then you closed the windows. All of them. And pulled the curtains tight. All of them. And they'd leave. All others. She'd come in with her back straight, but she'd come out, chased away by how much she'd have loved you had she not known you so well... so bad, really.
Don't love. Wait, wait for me to come clean up.
Keep on collecting bodies, sighs, goosebumps. I know it's what you do -- you love being a collector, but not an owner, you wish nothing of your gatherings should belong to you. I like your vulnerability, it shows well from my window.
You know, I just moved in town, from the periphery of some preconceived ideas. I came to the center of your attention because I felt you, from a great distance. I won't stick around forever, I just come in the morning and leave with the dusk. I mean to have a different life at night -- I will be whom I want to be... maybe even a woman on your stair.ii
Now I'm going to open my windows and you will see me... lift your eyes. Good morning. I am naked because that's how you drink your coffee and I wanted to not come short. Keep on reading, you'll have time to see me, anytime. Lift your right if you need me or lift your left if you're afraid...
You've put both hands on your face... my letter's on the floor. Therefore, you did lift your arms, but both. Sometimes it's hard to translate you. You need me, but you're afraid... it's too common, couldn't possibly be the meaning...
I wrapped, crossed the street and came into his house. As I suspected, all the doors were closed. I went everywhere, eyes closed, even on the wire, smiling. From the library I crossed directly into the room where he sat, naked, both hands on face. Now I know -- needing me, but utterly terrified of admitting it, wearing the only mask any woman in love could trivially remove. Behind his palms were exactly his feelings, all I had to do was take them away...
The distance between two windows hid details I only apprehended once a breath away. I cleaned everywhere, into the deepest recesses, polished tables and sparkled crystals, shined the marble of that stair such that any unwarned visitor'd have broken her neck, I put flowers in where they were needed and left one day, because I had enough of what I knew by heart. I never removed his palms, I realised I prefer men who seem to have answers to men who have questions for me to answer.
I lived in his house three days, and then I moved into a studio with a view of the sea. Every morning, when I open the window, I lift suddenly the right and much, much slower the left as well. Out of force of habit, for the sea doesn't see me.
Mihaelo... prea te crezi, fa.iii
———- Cultural issues. She only got out of the country late in life, and well.. it's hard, what. [↩]
- Vecine... nu-nteleg, straine... nu-nteleg ce aveti cu mine... [↩]
- Bonus #1 : ce capra esti, sa stii ca pe linga punctele de suspensie se exista si alte semne de punctuatie capabile sa-ncheie un paragraf.
Bonus #2 : iti dai seama ce proast-ai fost cind pizdutele din noua generatie de pizdute fix ca tine ies la inaintare cu copy/paste-uri dupa ~acelasi rahat ? Ce, tu credeai ca-i al tau sau ceva ? Nu-i al tau. I-al vostru, pisi. I-al vostru, devalmas, pausal si la comun, si inca de multisor asa. Tat fix aceeasi pizda creste-n voi, caz doar n-oti creste voi in ea.
Hai, succese si vezi tu-acolo-n chapeau. [↩]
