I will sacrifice you at the altar of my art
I should be working. For this particular assignment the PRC's deadline's twelve pm, but I find myself a little too off-kilter, too burned out, too euphorically numb to even bother to care.
I miss writing fiction.
Between desire and dreaming
The problem with me is that I need a muse to write. Not a real live muse - an idea. I need to "fall in love". I need to obsess.
I take someone, an idea of them, and turn them into a romance. The hunger in my belly and the fire in my eyes is fed by passion, and while my heart belongs to my lover, I need the pain of the double-edged sword of desire to bleed my words from me.
You, my beautiful prey, are my obsession. You are a special enigma. You are the highlight of the moment and I may be using you, but somehow I'm not sorry. It's not like me, is it? I'm sorry if I sneeze the wrong way. But somehow to indulge (in? with? for?) someone for the encounter's sake is something that does not move me.
I want you. I will have you. I'll be gentle and neither of us will be sorry.
I am the nightingale cursed. My songs come at a price no coin can purchase. But I will let you hear it, and your skin shall sing and ring true and I shall give you my blood to drink. We will have known something raw and primal and for all of that single, shining moment, I would love you above all else.
I have traveled the paths of desire
gathering flowers and carrying fire
Raising a grave to the reasons behind me
Looking for strength as you live to remind me
I'm drawn to you
I'm caught in you
I am the fly who dreams of the spider
The path to the web becomes deeper and wider
I dream of the silk that is tangled inside you
And know that I want to be somewhere beside you
I'm drawn to you
I'm caught in you
In your eyes
All of the promises
All your lies
-- Paths of Desire, The October Project
I miss writing fiction.
Between desire and dreaming
The problem with me is that I need a muse to write. Not a real live muse - an idea. I need to "fall in love". I need to obsess.
I take someone, an idea of them, and turn them into a romance. The hunger in my belly and the fire in my eyes is fed by passion, and while my heart belongs to my lover, I need the pain of the double-edged sword of desire to bleed my words from me.
You, my beautiful prey, are my obsession. You are a special enigma. You are the highlight of the moment and I may be using you, but somehow I'm not sorry. It's not like me, is it? I'm sorry if I sneeze the wrong way. But somehow to indulge (in? with? for?) someone for the encounter's sake is something that does not move me.
I want you. I will have you. I'll be gentle and neither of us will be sorry.
I am the nightingale cursed. My songs come at a price no coin can purchase. But I will let you hear it, and your skin shall sing and ring true and I shall give you my blood to drink. We will have known something raw and primal and for all of that single, shining moment, I would love you above all else.
I have traveled the paths of desire
gathering flowers and carrying fire
Raising a grave to the reasons behind me
Looking for strength as you live to remind me
I'm drawn to you
I'm caught in you
I am the fly who dreams of the spider
The path to the web becomes deeper and wider
I dream of the silk that is tangled inside you
And know that I want to be somewhere beside you
I'm drawn to you
I'm caught in you
In your eyes
All of the promises
All your lies
-- Paths of Desire, The October Project