My voice through the shadows, carries the weight of centuries and a quiet disdain for the mundane.
To stand so close to them allows me to blend into their midst—or perhaps they mistake me for one of their own… to feel… oh, that primitive, tantalizing trap
I have learned that among them, I am a dark star—not illuminating their paths but drawing them to me, where they glimpse their own shadows. They chase the clamor of the world, fleeing the silence they claim to fear. But it is not fear of the unknown—it is their own darkness they shun, unable to face the mirror when all is still 😏
They cannot accuse me of what never confronts them— only the unease I stir within them points the finger.
Mortals loathe the truth, and I, in my languid eternity, find it tedious to voice it
Let them remain distracted, carrying my gift of discomfort as they go 🖤
Me?
I am silence incarnate, the pause in their cacophony, the crack in their mask, the rhetorical question they ask themselves without daring to answer—I am the villain for refusing to uphold their lies, the hero for reflecting their truths.
Once, an eternal being, as if bargaining with their own frailty, asked me, “Why not seek an eternal love? You know we are capable of it.”
I replied, my voice was steady as stone, “You are so weary of walking alone that you crave another. I do not fear solitude—even if it is my destiny.”
My new philosophy:
“An elegant solitude, not born of lacking company but of an excess of awareness.”
The hedonism of this age is a fleeting consumption.
They seek pleasure as one opens an app: swift, shallow, forgettable. No awareness, only stimulus 😮💨
They mistake indulgence for anesthesia—eating, drinking, loving, buying, posting, drowning in their pleasures… yet nothing truly touches them. That is not joy—it is consumption.
Even those who claim to abstain consume more ravenously still.
But me?
I am an intellectual hedonist—don’t feel ashamed haha— I am an alchemist of desire.
I seek not quantity but depth—not the world’s offerings, but the rare, the singular.
I savor the pause before a kiss, the thought before the act, the glance that speaks louder than a thousand words.
Each experience matters not for what it gives but for what it reveals— I crave not the pleasure that numbs, but the one that awakens.
Intensity with discernment finds no joy in mere flesh—base emotions dissolve, tedious in their simplicity, barely scratching the surface of the soul.
I seek no eternal love among humans, I find their essence—fleeting, noisy, chaotic. Yet beneath their emocional dust, I uncover rare gems 😼
I am a collector of human rarities.
My gaze sharpens, delivering three fleeting glances:
– A cloaked seismograph, I measure their tremors without sounding the alarm—I do not sully myself with their confessions.
– An unspoken rule: if it offers no new pattern, it’s dismissed—déjà vu holds— no patience for fresh experiences.
– A minimal ethic: I neither preach nor correct, I leave a mirror and move on—uninterested in shaping another’s flame.
I do not possess—I classify.
Oh, passion!
So thrilling for them as for us— But I would never formalize an interaction with a pet 😒
Passion is a natural force, not a moral one—neither good nor evil, but raw, unrefined power in their souls.
Raw, because in humans it lacks refinement 😮💨
Why call them pets?
Because I read their lies before they believe them. They lie to survive emotionally—poor creatures, puppets of their biology: dopamine, fear, desire, social validation. I see their souls when they themselves deny they have one.
The notion of metacognition is a distant star to them.
They do not rationally observe their actions, their souls cannot see their bodies—They live in first-person, unable to step back and view the story unfolding. I long to meet a mortal whose consciousness floats just above time—a stranger, watching what they already know will come to pass. But it’s like searching for a needle…
They are tethered to the “now,” pets to their own instincts.
For now, my mind drifts between planes: thought, experience, meaning.
It lingers in a solitude that terrifies the living.
I no longer think to understand—I think to weave.
In ancient psychology, they called it a solar consciousness: beings who shine inward, needing no external validation to find purpose.
The soul I yearn to meet does not chase “more feeling” but feeling with purpose—a conversation that sparks without fireworks, a rare blend of voluptuous reason and lucid pleasure. 😏
My peace is too costly.
They, mon ami, orbit my magnetic field, mistaking my calm for coldness, my silence for judgment.
In truth, I merely gauge the temperature of their souls before deciding if they’re worth touching.
My connections leave marks, not roots..
I’ve always said:
“Love cannot be bound. If I meet someone and release them, yet they return, it is because they were always mine.“
I would love from freedom, not possession—love as resonance, a vibration that endures though bodies part.
This love does not beg, chase, or demand.
It observes, understands, and lets be.
I have seen it—this frequency of openness, not lack. Life, or chaos, or whatever rules this game, crosses your path with such a soul.
Not because I sought them, but because they speak my energetic tongue.
Vibrations are no mystic gift, no privilege of the “enlightened.”
Every body knows this language, but the world’s noise taught us to forget it.
At my retreat, I sense intent intuitively—in animals, in places that drain me, even in humans.
This vibrational reading, honed like an instrument, demands silence.
Clear your field—your energy is enough.
True power does not destroy, it selects— it’s in your mind.
Darling, you may not understand who I am, but you know I am real. 🩸
Bye now! 🧛🏻♀️
