I think that’s a great idea, deary, and I’m signing in. Should I resemble Mr. Page on the flamboyance of the story that follows, I ask for forgiveness.
A Confession of Whimsy:
*Regiments of bottles of laudanum, Broken Giants, and Morelways guard the room. Splashes of honey form different pictures all around the chamber. In the centre, Sir Magmionify lies, crestfallen, on a wing chair, his eyes as red as his smile.
“Well, won’t you say hello, deary? Have you come here to hear me talk, babble, or spit blood? Hehehehehe. You look so coaly with that mask. It is detestable. Should you take it down after a while? But at least you’re not wearing the cranium. You don’t know how much I desire the golden skulls of those who seek the prideful, to be red. And I’m not talking of masks. But you’re not here to hear a devilish writer talk nonsenses, in that depraved dates. You’re here because you want to hear my faults. And I shall delight you with, by far, my very best.
It all happened in a honeyed, dark, night, as it always should be in a good history. I was but another journalist on Veilgarden’s endless lines of young hotheads who thought that with his words, they could do something for the world. I suppose that my innocence must had been charming for some of the well-positioned artists that frequented the honey dens, as to not have a perfumed invitation each day to an “artistic soiree”. Yes, they were exactly what you’re thinking, little, clever, masked thing. Not bodies only, but thoughts, ideas… fused together in a little piece of warmness, at an enormous, cold cavern… Isn’t that ironic, now that I think about it? But it was in one of these vile places, where I meet her.
I was drunk as a lord, on that b----y night. You might remember it. I think I made it to the back pages of the newspapers. How glorious they were, the exotic dances and the recitals of cheap poetry, both made as a vain excuse which will garnish an evening that, all in all, only pursued the purpose of obnubilate our minds enough to let us find the good in the world in form of sensible experiences. If there is something that I can remember for sure is that she was in front of me, when I was about to drink my first jar of honey. Skinny past the starving point, as a little artist. The fire of her head of hair framed her pale, frail, skin, painted with freckles. She wore a violet, tattered dress which with his strategic gaps, conferred her a cloud of sensuality so dense that I felt willingly to drown in it. She smiled at my sight. I pointed a free cushion next to me. She came, and we both kissed our cheeks. We talked. For half an hour we only talked, while playing the oldest Game on the world. You don’t know how it haunts me now… How could you?
We then began to gobble. Honey, liquors, the bowls of fruit that our host had put for our pleasure. And we dreamed, oh dear, how we dreamed. While we were kissing, our lips became fields, wet and fleshy fields, each one of our pores was our own different burrow; one was austere, the other, rococo, and so on, till which seemed the infinity. In one of them, we went down. But that precise down, was up, and we rapidly found ourselves in a jungle. The colours feasted on us, and we laughed and singed as they smooth skins tainted ours. Insectoid creatures kneelled before us, and brought us serpentine masks, and my love embraced me fondly, as I did the same.
When I was awake, I saw her pleading eyes, watching me. I knew that look, and we both knew what was the next step to take. But cruelty on me surfaced. I smiled at her, stroked every inch of her smooth, sinewy dermis, as I whispered pleasant lies. She trusted me. A complete stranger which she had met hours before in a bohemian party. For a moment, when he departed, smiling with joy in her eyes, even I believed myself. Then I looked myself in the mirror, and I went to bed. I’ve never wanted something as going to visit her suite, on Veilgarden, but at the same time, something kept me away. It was not the desire to prolong my artistic existence, nor the fear of my relationships with devils could hurt her. It was the verification of how I did not deserve her, not then, not now. She wasn’t something as me, but much better. She had hope, love, maybe even innocence to give. She could enlighten this dark city a bit, at least, and thus, she could not side with me, who will only light himself on fire with but cold scientific spirit in the inside. But I had her, at least, for a night. And with that thought on my mind I tried to forget her, fully working on my artistic compositions.
The next time I saw her, was two months after all of that. She was hand in hand with a young Baronet. She glanced at me, smiling coldly. I was weak, that night. I run, in a frenzy, to her door. I found herself. Long was the night, but longer was the morning. We did not talk. Every time we meet is like that. Both of us are weak for each other, and in London, that is not a convenient thing to be. I cant stop thinking how talkative she was when we met for the first time, and how she won’t say a word to me, now. I doubt she ever will. I feast on the memories of her voice. Each day it is more musical, more subtle, more beautiful. I long for hearing it, some day, but you don’t know how much I fear that moment. Will it be as delightful as I remember, or it will only be a scarred copy of an idea of perfection I’ve created? I wonder if that is love. I don’t want to know."
*Magmionify helps himself with a bottle of Laudanum. He stares at the visitor. His glance seems lost beyond repair.
"They say that in the truly important matters, you should always look for love. In that, maybe they are not as mistaken as in everything else. But be careful. Blood is always red, doesn’t matter why it comes from. And I can assure you that there are worst things… The ones that stay in your head, and the ones that are born of them. Now, I think I have things to do, and you have to confess more wretched individuals. If you don’t want, by coincidence, to stay the night… I could teach you one or two things."