Heaven forbid agony befalls a man who enjoys a bit of perversion in between his mediocrities. The challenge presents itself asking the question whether or not morality was part of the question, and if it did, whether it would warrant combat in principles. I myself am a witness of the in between, the purgatory of pleasure and pain, the lovely ecstasy of fleshly merriment. For what is a heterosexual being if not for the glory of the opposite sex? Man serves to please the woman and vice versa. That is a common theme. None of which truly understand the imposed art of the flesh in common, the beauty derived from the pleasures of the body, and the soul hidden beneath the perceived lewdness. And when the most inopportune time finally comes to a stand, would it not matter if an adversary in a form of lingering and bygone depression grabs hold of one’s inability to establish the human warmth of another? What more depression can there already be in an already-established deep depression? Would it not, ultimately, be suicide?
One’s fickle taste of the feminine form like mine is a determinant of exquisite objectivity, as well as being a deterrent to development of satisfaction. There need not be an antagonist to one’s involuntary participation to the otherworldly happenings that surround them, as unawareness is clearly not at fault by a long shot. The grand scheme and design of the natural order of things is inevitable, not by the choice of a higher entity, but of simply natural selection. Just as science tells the story of man originating from primates, scriptures talk about woman originating from the rib of man. So the qualities of the common man are obviously evident in the opposite gender, unless scientific studies provide research that denies so, but in order to avoid that classic impression of a pompous misogynist, one demands that all be equal to the eyes of both men. From then on, it is emotion that develops and separates them, where love and/or hate are given room to flourish as part of natural selection.
When a being of false hope, such as a man with low regard, comes to enlighten himself with the world of maddening beauty that is of burlesque and decides to engage himself a new perspective of interest, then that being of once false hope slowly begins to realise all it is that he has left out after all these wasted years, unwillingly falling into a nostalgic-depressive mood of deaf whispers and silent reveries, unlocking the potential within himself to be of something else worthy and therefore creates the romance that has been missing all along. Suddenly all the woes and the perils of missed opportunities bear the mind and engulfs everything pathetic about his soul, but through this eagerness to live and the romance associated with it, that is if he survives the initial blow, then his resolve evolves into something else much greater, much powerful than ever witnessed, and it paves the way for the higher calling, something inexplicable, something sacred, and it just is. For something that is uniquely absurd, it makes sense and that terrifies the majority because they do not know or understand what to make of it, and somehow that frightening gesture of wanting to understand suffocates them, and leaves them an invisible dusty trail, to lead them nowhere. In fact, to lead them to a different point of view, and then it moves on without them, as if nothing ever happened. That same madness becomes one with the being, and now that desire stalks him like a fowl of prey, becoming a weakness that was always there only now less subtle, looking to be released and in search for something, or someone, to rave.
Through the lens, his eyes are of a different set of spectacles, only seeing what the eyes wanted to, somehow biased by original thought, where one would gladly end his life with the absence of regrets or worries. In every capture of stillness the memory consumes him, whereas if he consumes the memory, his control over the matter is of a different angle and perspective, his urge much less diabolical, much more stoic, yet much less fulfilling. In a way, the pleasure originates from the pain, just as torture benumbs the shame. But the interest is not in his ability to control, for that theory is near impossible to achieve. The rational response would, of course, be to give in. Note the term rational because not everyone agrees the same.
When the first predator of desire bursts her lips into the open space and smears the atomic particles with artificial scent, everyone agrees that that moment becomes the turning point of understanding. The neophyte starts to ponder, steadily consuming the essence of the vibrant flow, whereas the beauty that stands before the neophyte mocks him through her mesmerising gaze, lulls him like a sea harpy in disguise, drilling through his weakness like a scorned wildebeest that has grown sick and tired of nature’s malevolence. It is that same hypnotic gaze that traps the witnesses into surrender, each finding themselves bending to her every will no matter the disposition. The beauty wraps her elongated arms around the tangible body parts of the audience unwillingly provoking all that feels unwelcome and distant claiming authority amongst the crowd and manipulates the urge as if she herself was one with them. She then draws them an inch closer by the second with every curve of the hip. That diminutive push that almost always happens in a blink of an eye demands strict attention for the simple reason that the attack usually begins from somewhere hardly noticeable, and unknown to its victims, which is venomous in nature that sucks the strength right out of someone immediately and mercilessly on the same spot. The succubus’ intention is not of the desire but the potential that is associated with each instance. The succubus is aware of the pleasures the knaves that stand before her crave, and it is in these habits that the departure of offense most often come from, be it by the form in which the man allows himself to give or by the amount of sadism man is willing to take. Rather than attempting to decipher the message or the intention, actions speak louder than any words can, which is of course usually the case, as I myself have witnessed, and that tiny pouch where my sanity persists no longer mattered, whatever is left of it, because even though I was a spectator in every sense of the word, my relevance to their cause was minimal to none, coupled by the fact that the highly intimidating, defensive aura they seem to have established got the best of me in every step of the way. In other words, once again, my expendable nature was irrelevant to what they would have wanted to achieve, and I could not, for the life of me, aid them in any form of support. Depressing as it may be, perhaps it is better this way, or the imbalance that I would have had developed in me would have been too devastating for the world to digest, and world domination would have simply been at hand, and I could have had made quick work on this dominion over the peasants that kept on uneasily surrounding me. “Complete global saturation,” quoted from the wise words of a fictional villain named Wesker.
And I look at the neophyte as I stare at his now perverted eyes without any response. His was fixated on the goddess that stood across him looking to be dragged down and abused. I avoid smirking at the simple thought that it might induce unwarranted attention, and I continue on with my own purpose, as his purpose was to obviously to drool over the floor like a hound out of its leash.
To witness a wonderfully crafted silk cloth torn apart by the soft touches of the beauty in sight was in some ways devastating. Such a marvel should have been given more respect than it deserves. The distraction of having to expose those voluptuous mammary gifts induced a mild confusion. Only because even though the expectation was to deliberately showcase these fine, joyful breasts for all the men (and women) to see, you take part in what they would like to dub a performance piece, and the concept of theatre now comes into play giving all sorts of artistic gratification for the criticisms withering with the programme somehow. So it is no longer just a piece of eye pornography, it is, by all accounts, a legitimate medium for art. That is why there needs risk of total laceration of fine cloth and some other materials, even expensive ones, for the value of wanting to satisfy the audiences is essential to their own satisfaction, just as the satisfaction of having to commit travesties of the mind by having to justify the lurid thoughts that are being intentionally provoked. Some others would just back away from the truth and instead give a more foolish analogy hoping to stray away from the topic at hand without having to risk one’s character through pointless hypocrisies that they begin to feel, as if they never wanted it in the first place, and that they were being dragged in that particular place and at that particular moment in time out of curiosity and false information. Carnal desires are skilled at bluffing to hide many intentions, but never do they lie. One either likes it or they do not, and if the latter, then you are neither homosexual nor sick, because even both of these equally share the same amount of urgencies as with everyone. Not only do the wardrobes suffer for the sake of the play, as too shall the elements of nature may well be. From what I have witnessed into account, it is hard to tell which ones were being passed out. Certainly the qualifications are there, aesthetic is almost optional, and talent is somehow dodgy, the gimmicks brought to the stage are somewhat farcical, be it intentional or not.
But this is not clown, though a slight parody is included amongst its cause.
But this is not clown, though a slight parody is included amongst its cause.
It has already been made clear that the purpose from the get-go was to titillate. Looking at the majority of the audience made a clear point of the distinction between giving a damn about the folly and giving more emphasis to the fleshly merriment of the scantily-clad. Whichever way to put it, it has never provided enough satisfaction, not unless something has to give in. Not even to the neophyte armed with spherical lenses. Every moment captured by this character only leaves more to be desired and less to be fulfilled, and even the work associated with his livelihood ceases to mind, and even the mind ceases to care, because everything that happens next lead to the realisation of guilt, one way or another.