Blank Doll rests.

Yesterday was great. It was great in a normal way, great in a spiritually unfulfilling way. We went for brunch at the Marriott and half died eating oysters and prawns. Haha, I have a strange craving for seafood. Actually, I have a strange craving for very sinful food. What's the gastronomic equivalent of a sado-masochist? Oh wait, I know, Sean!

Ma famille then went to watch Narnia which I am proud to say, made me cry again. Damn it, I cannot believe that I actually see all the christian symbolism in there. It is altogether very annoying, almost as if I can never escape a past I have no hand in creating. Yes, laugh, I will never return to the church. It is not the whisperings of a christian god beckoning me back to the fold because GOD speaks through many voices and if I see the hand of a god, then so be it.

There is no such thing as a monolithic god. It is naught but a product of social pressures fomented within the stews of mankind over the millenium.

But I digress. I cried because a secret part of me envies those children. You see, when I was young (and even now), I always harboured a secret wish that I would turn around and see that the doorway behind me led not to the common world but to somewhere else. Ah yes, an arc of light, a shadow elongating, and poof, I'm gone. Even now when the cynicism of blased youth and reality ought have removed this little spark of hope, I still hold onto it. Perhaps the only way through to that other world is death, but then, the last book of Narnia did make me grieve for Susan. Oh well, oh, and the Susan in the movie was very pretty, I don't care if nobody else agrees.

But let's speak of today. My shoulder hurts as usual, acupuncture it appears, holds not the final say when it comes to mysterious aches and pains. But I will savour it as I savour every bit of pain. There is something about the idea of masochism that is misleading. A masochist does not take pleasure in every sort of pain. No, brutality may hold its special pleasure but pure, unrelenting pain is not what makes a masochist cry in red-tinged pleasure. It is the mind behind the pain. You see, play with a masochist goes beyond the touch of flesh because the mind is involved too. More so if love is involved. I assure you, the taste of anguish, shame and adoration mingled together tastes much better than the sweetness of fulfilled love.

Nevermind.

You whom I have known, attend to me. I cry out of despair, not because I feel that my life is hopeless. But because the act of despair gratifies me. Yes, witness the pettiness of my soul. It is a brilliant spark against the swell of your blood. Hear me.

Hear me.

I love you. How strong, those words. How many times have they been used in vain, in spite and treachery? I know not. Yet I would say once more, I love you. The invocation marks the speaker, names him, remembers. I may never have seen you but you hear me in your daily grind, in your prayers. You hear me because the manacles were sealed upon my birth, because the enchainment began long before you knew. You hear me because one day when I finally see you, all will be understood.

Avant le fin, cherchez-moi.

C'est tout.