A seductive murmur that glides like beauty, laden with an ancient and dangerous magnetism, was heard.
The poles, always drawn to each other, never meet—Those emotional bombs, impregnated with a toxic scent… Desire, oh so primal, is like breath you can’t hold, a sigh that burns the lungs… it was as if I were swimming through their sins 😮💨
One of my codes, etched in the cold stone of my eternal morality, reads:
“Playing with desire is having one foot in fire and the other in water, but always in the game.”
It’s not about surrendering to the flames or fleeing to the ice, but dancing on the blurred line between desire and control, between emotion and reason.
You touch the fire to feel its burn, you touch the water to soothe the sting, but you never lose your center.
That is the essence of my mind: fierce, damned, possessed by a magnetic energy that embraces the game without succumbing to it 😈
It’s not love—it’s a drug, and instinct writes the prescription…
Those addictive connections don’t stem from an illusory “ideal”—as if vampires were demons, ha 🧛🏻♀️
Instinct draw me because it graze my curiosities, ignite my inner fires.
It stimulates me. 😼
Every mortal has a pattern, and when I cross their paths, I feel it—I don’t scatter my attention like confetti.. even sharing a fragment of myself feels tediously banal 😒
My mind, intense and sharp, can’t pretend not to see the design behind their actions—I read their minds like open books, anticipating the next chapter before they write it.
The red fire, wild, visible, emotional, draws me like a magnet.
My blue fire, cold and controlled, could feed on it, but if it overflows, it would stain millennia of dominion
And yet, that bond charged with risk always tempts me.
Oh, risk… my salvation from eternal boredom🧛🏻♀️
Oh humans, oft boring… but playing with their intensity—oh, si—with that spark of life that reminds me of other times—it makes me feel alive, not a husk wandering in an empty reality 💀
The paradox is cruel: boredom is the lost spark, but the red fire burns faster than light itself.
That’s my elegant way of naming instinct.
Why?
Few see their own pattern clearly.
Boredom craves fire, something that feels real—it’s not immaturity or an inability to commit—it’s instinct seeking a translator, a need for intensity to remember it still pulses in another body.
I live off energy, that stimulus 😏
The lukewarm doesn’t satisfy me 😒
Virtue? I play with fire without mistaking it for human warmth—as if that were possible 😸
The red fire lifts me, but it could consume me if I don’t limit myself to brushing against it—I enjoy the risk without yielding control.
And what is that risk?
A truth about a delicate matter, if not spoken with rawness, becomes the most insidious disease.
When something screams “not here,” three explosive elements ignite:
· Mystery—The curiosity for the uncertain, a pleasure that draws you to error, to the most human.
· Challenged ego—That arrogant “I can handle this,” the desire to break rules, to savor the illusion of eternity.
· Emotional projection—What attracts us isn’t someone or the situation, but what it symbolizes: intensity, escape, validation, an emotion long forgotten.
We are seduced by the idea, not the reality—we are failed attempts at gods, taught to love our imperfections.
What screams “not here” hits exactly where curiosity burns, the inner fire—that, dear reader, is irresistible 🫠
The “inner fire” is a spark of eternity, a dance of trial and error woven into instinct.
Evil? Haha 😸
I don’t think so, it’s life.
Mortals create, explore, love with intensity… but any impulse, without control, destroys 🥀
That fire can come from wanting to feel something real, even if it hurts, seeking control or redemption, or not enduring calm ❤️🔥
Oh, suddenly I heard “not here”…
That red fire dwelling in the unconscious, leads them to confuse illusions with intensity, and intensity with authenticity 🔥
If something is calm, stable, easy, their minds, hardened by chaos, see it as empty or false—not because it is, but because they’ve grown accustomed to only feeling alive when their emotions tremble—their nervous system only recognizes the real in emotional quakes.
It’s not a lack of reason; it’s emotional survival.
They believe love is desire, and without risk, there’s no real connection.
I’ve lived it before… and it’s nothing to me.
Beneath the veil of their fleeting lives, instinct is the string I pull, a fragile thread that bends mortals to my will with a whisper of their own desires..😏
Just like Oxford comma for literature 🩸
The spark doesn’t need to know who holds the lighter.. once told you, I just like to see others burn 🧛🏻♀️
Burn— don’t explode! 🧨
Bye now! 💋
