“Les autres jouent un peu à ce genre de choses, mais Colm et Ivan sont des joueurs confirmés qui continuent à concourir à un haut niveau. Ivan a participé à des compétitions récemment — il a perdu trois matchs consécutifs en juillet, et le lendemain, il a découvert que… il a simplement commencé à se sentir différent…”
Romantic love—oh, that modern notion that sets the soul ablaze with inspiration… a myth cloaked in the guise of authenticity, darling.
A tapestry of prefabricated expectations, woven from the whimsical illusions spun by those old Disney scripts, wouldn’t you say?
How delightfully ironic, the shivers it sends down the spine…
Watching everyone fumble through the “dating game” with the clumsy charm of amateurs haa 😸
Burning heaven in each line 🔥
No one seems to grasp the art of playing it simply—oh, how much more intoxicating it could be.
All this emotional training, for what, my dear? To star as the protagonist in their own melodramatic saga?
The exquisite yet melancholic paradox of this game:
– They yearn for love, yet approach it with a cocktail of anxiety, masks, ghosting.
– They crave connection, but play the game by feigning indifference… poor souls 😮💨
– They long for intimacy, yet guard their hearts with emotional distance, lest they surrender their power.
This week, I’ve added a new gem to my philosophies, a whispered truth to savor…
“What starves the mind, feeds the soul—such is the nature of expectation.”
—kimV.
But, my darlings, this game is a matter of levels…
Personally, I revel in watching mortals of any age surrender to their primal instincts. Oh, I confess, it thrills me to see them utterly lost in their desires, consumed by the fire of their own making.
Dear reader, I have been there—oh, how I savored it. But now, I see what others cannot while they’re entangled in the throes of it.
Me? I do not idealize anyone, for I am my own masterpiece 😏
I do not wait for another to complete what I already embody.
I do not see this as living in the shadow of solitude, but if it were, let me whisper this truth—I love it—single, but never alone 💋
Once, perched upon a balcony, I gazed upon the masses, pondering how much they are willing to surrender for their most wicked desires—desires I, too, indulge, but no longer from the same vantage as the common throng.
Now, I choose. And, I confess, I find the greatest amusement in those who believe existence hinges solely on such delights—the sweet naiveté of it all.
I would not condemn their impulses; I merely find it absurd how gravely most take them so serious 😮💨
Allow me to confess further: empty, pretty words bore me to death.
Yet, I have discerned that the truest act a human can perform is tied to carnal desire—that exquisite chaos devoid of reason.
Nothing astonishes me anymore; I have seen and done it all… But should someone dare to try and impress me, let it be with deeds untainted by mere instinct, not some recycled display of their animal nature.
“Surprise me, if you dare.” 💋🧛♀️
This act of choosing—it is as if a vampire grew weary of processed blood and craved those still discovering themselves.
I am an immortal observer of desire, an ancient soul that has already burned but lingers near the flames to watch others ignite.
Those who live their emotions so fiercely, so irrationally, reveling in a delight that cradles the fear I can no longer feel.
My greatest act of love? A vampire’s kiss—a thirst quenched only by what is new.
A mere tourist in the passions of humanity 🥃
The levels I spoke of before? There are but three:
The dark eroticism… the forbidden… the taboo. 🌓
Those who play my game do not seek moral progress; they evolve beyond it 😈
Those who defy rules, traditional morals, and standard norms…
Personally, I find the trends mortals chase so dreadfully predictable.
I prefer to dance on the blurry line 😼
Where others tremble, I stand firm.
There, certainty dissolves—only desire, instinct, danger, and the art of embracing it without seeking permission remain 🧛♀️
It is as if my soul has lived long enough to smell the smoke before the inferno.
Pretty words are but a breeze, grazing the surface. I can sense those who merely seek amusement, craving fleeting validation.
For a moment, as I received her responses, I felt her pouring honeyed words into my ear, seeking access to my mind without offering anything profound.
Then I remembered—I am the vampire. That voice was her, perhaps why each word I wrote carried the weight of centuries…
Всегда буду искать тело с душой… Возможно, я лишь сохраню её.
А пока останусь между строк, там, где меня трудно обнаружить.
Как дела, малыш?
Ну всё, пока! 🍷🧛♀️
