Cecilia

With numerous tombs scattered around in a maniac's attempt to absorb as much anatomy as humanly possible, Cecelia's red tipped fingernails gently tease my neatly braided hair. She gently massages her fingers into the back of my neck, playfully tracing the what I'm learning is the C1 or is it the C2 bone of the spine, oh I'm so going to flunk this test. I'm studying now since I know that I'm a slow person and my time with is best spent reviewing each and every contour and curve of anatomy the shiny pages have to offer rather than pay attention to her increasingly tempting advances. She's enjoying it, as always as she runs her fingers into my tight braid making it all the tighter and uncomfortable. Making me want to reach out to the braid and undo my meticulous attempt at having an ordered head in appearance at least, knowing that as soon as I do Cecilia will simply take the advance and work her hand deeper into my scalp and the gentle tug at my hair will end with my studies abandoned along with my discipline.

And yet she continues to bait me, wearing down my resistance.

I make attempt to mumble under my breath, struggling to recollect my focus as a child would make their stand again the rushing waves to defend the sandcastle built with pride and love. I can feel her smile as she lays on the couch to add the advantage of her position and to place her warm breath in support of her manual assault. Individuals who have certain keys are usually not allowed near me once their choice to end our relationship is certain. It is all to tempting to have them open those locks and watch me rendered in emotional shambles as a flick of a hand can wake such primal emotion from me. I've always made certain to simply remove myself from them to prevent any languishing returns. Women who know how to reach those special buttons that knock out my rational mind have always lead me astray and have left me to shamefully return, usually cursing at my easily manipulated frame, back to any salvageable progress.

Cecilia not only have the majority of keys, but she has a certain knack at knowing what I really want and what I'm willing to do for it. She loves to laugh at me in that rich, molasses giggle that usually lead me into those moments where I beg for the last 10 minutes back to remake my choice. She has been the driving force behind every bad choice I've made and the majority of scars that have a story behind them. Not to say she's without her qualities. She has always inspired me to greatness in those mediocre moments when life has become all to oatmeal to endure. She marvels how long I'm able to thrive in the mush of it all, knowing that I'm attempting to build some sort of reasoning mind that will prevent me from gambling away my future in the toss of the dice. And even though She's been there kissing those dice to see what may come up, she has been the driving force in those amazing gambles that have made me a legend in certain circles.

How can I resist her, when she knows all too well that it's not oatmeal I want, but the sweetness of raw honey on my tongue?

"Hi, I'm what Oscar called Temptation."

She has inspired me to some of my greatest writings as well to the point that I've always felt dishonest in claiming themas my own works. Every step of the way, her moist whispers in my ear have forced me to out of sound slumber only to meet the rays of dawn with heavy lids and a work of magnificence lain out. I've filled notebooks and blank paper with poems, stories, insight and verse to persuade, invoke and amuse. There have been moments where such inspirations have crushed others in mid thought only to imply that only the worthy thought may survive to be written down and remembered for what greatness it may bring. In those magnificent highs I've always had her by my side cheering me on the loudest.

And so, I can feel her warm breath and enticing fingers work my hair loose, whispering what I want to hear and what I need to be said. She continues to question me on why didn't I continue to pursue my original desires and needs. She knows all to well that it's always a woman that seem to get between us the longest. The first, have thought me never to kneel or grovel to another ever again as she soon earned her key and made great use of it. In the end of five years I was left with a bum knee and a starved mind. It would not be long when Cecilia would arrive soon.

I can still remember the first time we've met as vividly as the shade of her crimson lips on the white ceramic cup. She seem to have awaken my creativity that I've abandoned in the conversations had. Nothing was considered taboo and everything had a hint of shame and exhilaration to it. To consider it my Renascence or at least my Restoration that would make Charles II envious. It was more than any excuse to delve into my more primal mind. Our motto became to warn other to never do once what we'd never do twice. Our escapades rivaled only by The Romantics, we sought to understand the limitation of the flesh and mind.

 As of now, Cecilia has undone my braid and have placed her legs resting on my chest as she runs her ringers through my hair. Of course, her attempt to distract me is more than blatant as she gently kisses my head. I've already asked her a few times before to understand that I need to understand my studies and that I would normally would not ignore her. She giggled richly once more and said that she knows and yet the temptation is all to delicious to ignore, adding that breaking my concentration is oh so much fun. It wouldn't take long before I abandoned my struggle and feasted upon her. After all not even a philosopher can endure the pain of a tooth ache and I'm not made of stone. 

We would see each other when possible, each time more memorable than then the next. And yet there will be a time when she would drop completely off my radar only to find herself at my door with a wicked smile and an invite to raise hell. Something about the way she drove. That abandonment that would remind me that I was no longer a corner stone, but carefree. That my every action was a cascade of potential and adventure was only a fingertip away. She fed that ignore side of me that craved diversion and fostered a love for the moment that still lingers with me today.

As all great love affairs she has left me with no end. As a cat would journey away from home to die, Cecilia would not be seen again. There would be signs and a few markers to show me that she was always near and even now my muse shares her image always beguiling me to venture out of the safety of my comfort zone and to stand out brave against the World. "Let Byron envy our love fore we shall not take to sick bed, but plunder the day regardless of what may come." Her words of always pushing me onwards.

Seize the day.

Hmmmm.....hard to settle knowing that the day was once seized, no?

And yet, we move on.

Ah....my world for her once more. If only to stand against it once again.

"Come on home"

Love's Naloxone Or Taking the Anti-love pill. Part Five - A Life Of Illusion: Prologue

Prologue

There is a cultural divide that places American cinema in a campy genre that seem to stagnate with hero worship, phallic challenges of manhood, and at least ten explosions for every exposed pair of breasts. In contrast, I tend to lean towards Japanese Samurai movies which instead of concentrating on the awesomeness of the lead role it tend to expose humanity in greatness and then to bring an end to the such, ensuring it immortality rather than fan boys arguing if their octogenarian is great or super great. Leaning towards immortality rather than the use of well worn masks that make grown men the target of pity, I'd rather face the end leaving some question to the imagination rather than destroy the mystery of the moment.

Understanding that I usually favor a third person view rather than anything personal in exhibiting my personal experiences, I'm going to attempt to keep this exchange palpable and tangible. I will restrain from hiding behind the comfort of language and the assumption that many refuse to look up the meaning of a multi-syllable word or the hidden meaning behind a simplistic thought. They are my defense mechanism as well as my means to paint an image that some moments seem to be beyond my regular grasp. So in the spirit of Glasnost as a true child of the 80's would know, I will attempt to sit still and find comfort in not using the amazing skill of hiding.

In attempting to end this, I wanted to find the correct ending theme since I've so confidently strode forward into a simple plot use that offered an anchor for some to follow. Using lyrics to convey deeper meaning seems to have replaced the eternal words of great poets and playwrights. I weep for the new generation who modern bards simply repeat the same lyric or group efforts where noise and doctored sound to mask guttural grunts. And yet, using this method of conveyance I could not find the ending that I sought so much while writing the others. How can I simply end an ongoing process that may bring change a week later? To bring solitude to an ensuing journey would only expose myself to the arrogance of such a thought.

And so, I decided to use the play of role in which the world's stage was built on. Perhaps the rising of another life, I can not help to borrow on the use of illusions to masquerade our true motives. I know, I ramble on. And letting go always seems the hardest near the end. And with this, onwards to my story.