It is as though modern love arrived with subtitles in Arial 12:
“Here comes the part where we feign surprise.”
No longer flirtation—corporate ritual..
– Phase 1: “What do you listen to on “Spotify”?”
(Translation: Do you fit my algorithm?)
– Phase 2: “I love to travel.”
(Translation: I have 4777 beach photos I no longer recall.)
– Phase 3: “I’m not looking for anything serious.”
(Translation: I seek something serious—with an escape clause.)
And the kiss… oh, the kiss.
Once a conflagration, now a QR scan:
“Compatible? ✓”
“Chemistry? 67 %”
“Worth the drama? Calculating…” 😴
The spark did not die—it was standardized.
As if Cupid had been replaced by a community manager:
Objective: engagement. / KPI: second date. / Budget: two gin-tonics.
Scenarios?
Either embrace nihilism (my recommendation), savor the absurdity, or seek one who shatters the script…
Meanwhile, I—Scotch in hand—“I have witnessed this scene in every variation.”
Bond after 27 films: “Another martini, another world to save, another ending I already know” 🥃
Script:
They arrive with their “Hi, how was your day?” in 480p,
while I preview the spoiler in 8K with director’s commentary.
The problem is not the play—it is that I am already the critic who wrote, watched, and reviewed it on Letterboxd 😮💨
They: “Do you like cinema?”
Me (internally): “Friend, I have seen the extended cut of your soul on Blu-ray.”
My thoughts persist: “Never see you again…”
It is not drama—it is statistical inevitability.
Like watching a football match knowing the score:
“The pass… the cross… and… ghosting in the 89th minute” 😮💨
Let’s be honest— Realistic solution?
None.
But two paths: continue sipping Scotch and dissecting the spectacle with surgical irony (my fav), or begin scripting your own—where the protagonist refuses the rules of mass theater.
Caution: ⚠
Write it too well,
and you will end alone…
with an audience of one.
But, oh, wait… that does not sound so terrible 😏
Fill this, director 🎬🥃
Sometimes I think I might wish to fall in love—
but I would require a certified romantic lobotomist 😸
Imagine:
Specialist in erasing memories of failed dates. 100 % effective.
Side effects: possible capacity to believe in “the spark” once more.
Alas, to me they are museums—and I am no collector.
Once: “Another stamp on the emotional passport!”, “One more anecdote for dinner parties!”
Now: “Why keep the ticket if I have already seen the film?”
It is not that they are fossils.
It is that I no longer require the museum to feel alive.
The adrenaline of novelty has become… what? A rusted souvenir? 😒
And when you sharpen your gaze to such precision:
Before: “How fascinating—your backpacking tale in Thailand!”
Now: “Ah, yes—the post-university self-discovery phase.”
Geez… Next! Or no!! 😮💨
Friends, this is not cynicism.
It is evolution.
Fall in love?
Perhaps.
But not with someone who offers moments. With someone who makes me forget I am counting.
But I am not seeking it… love tale— time withers everything 🥀
What do I seek? A dynamic of energy and fascination 🩸😏
Not pleasure. Intensity with meaning.
Not a body—but a consciousness that returns my gaze without blinking.
Not a seduction game—but a duel of wills where neither feigns surrender.
—desire as a game of power and surrender—
Not sex, mutual recognition in high definition.
Two minds that measure, test, cut… and instead of bleeding, they glow🩸
Physical pleasure is now merely the basic dialect.
I speak in metaphors—but it is code 😉
I want someone who:
– Challenges without humiliating.
– Surrenders without vanishing.
– Looks at me and thinks: “Here is one who has also seen behind the curtain.”
Yes, desire does not vanish. It distills.
From a quick shot to a slow poison that tastes of truth.
I want no distraction, no noise…
I want collision!
Not a “That was hot”
but an “oh, now I got why I exist” gasped between breaths 😜😎
And meanwhile…
the hunger grows😉
Not for flesh 😒
But for someone with the courage to devour my mind with eyes wide open 😏
Rare?
No. Rare would be settling for less.
The proper prey
does not flee.
It will hunt me back… if I grant the chance haha 😏
Ah, but pause—the predator/prey theory explains 90 % of dates.
I reside in the 10 % that breaks the model.
I seek neither to devour (easy) nor be devoured (comfort zone)—
I seek a predator who hunts in parallel.
Who looks, calculates, and knows either could rip the other’s throat… yet chooses, by pure will, not to.
There lies the fire—not in the bite. But in the “could” that never comes.
I want the other to look and think:
“This is no prey. This is a mirror with fangs.”
And I, gazing back:
“Here is one who also knows the curtain is cardboard… and knows I am measuring him.”
No, that is not romance.
That is art.
For desire unsated is the only one that never rots.
It lingers in shadow, watching 😈
In this saturated theater:
– They: “Swipe, match, dopamine, repeat.”
– Me: “Silence, gaze, voltage, wait.”
No, darlings, I need no apps—they are parasites..
selling hunger in express desire
but it is sugar flavored like connection.
It dissolves on the tongue—it does not fill.
I do not speak in prose, for prose is for those who must convince.
I speak in poetry, for I no longer require permission.
Each verse is a clean cut through the fog.
They read and wonder: “What does it mean?”
I have already said everything.
And when they judge me with marked cards…
I have told them: I do not play cards—I play minds.
I am on the stage,
but without lights—I seek no spotlight.
My shadow is enough.
My frequency is now clear as a tuning fork in a room of shattered mirrors.
Thus I prefer fasting… they bring pocket radios full of static..
Perhaps, somewhere, another has tuned their frequency ❤️🔥
And then…
there will not even be words.
Only the sound of two frequencies recognizing each other.
And the curtain, at last,
will stay down.
For there will be no theater.
Only presence.
Tuning in📡
Bye now! 🧛🏻♀️
