~

𝘕𝘰𝘯𝘱𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥~

Our home galaxy is very alluring. The universe's planetary bodies, stellar systems, and Milky Way would be too much for one's hands to handle. Maybe it's designed for us to be naive, distant, and perplexing. But here we are, back at the taboo subject of "what makes us?" How much do we rely on the ropes that life provides? Is it possible to run away from the unknown, or does it just define us? Think of it as the domain of our knowledge, the freedom we yearn for, and the hostility that develops—in the absence of it. Are we being followed by the cosmic space in our thoughts? Say we reach out and touch the stars. Were we trying to hit them, or did they come running after us? I don't understand how our lives fade into the annals of time but the stars stay eternally. For all time, the sky will be all we can see. Even with all the nebulous uncertainty, humans continue to seek ways to marvel about the cosmos. In a childish sense, it's almost absurd to constantly inquire. However, we just presume without examination. If we really believe that our galaxy is far larger than humanity, only then will the actual third eye be able to initiate such cosmic explosions. To remain nonplussed is to remain optimistic, bewildered, unknown, and wanting.

𝓜—

"𝐀 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝."

In a style reminiscent of a waterfall, her rich chocolate brown hair fell down her back. She found it difficult to focus on her own since she flinched whenever her hair brushed her forearm. As she let out a low hiss, it was clear that she was exhausted. After all, whose idea was this? Someone at VOGUE magazine decided that taking images underwater would be a fantastic idea. What is it about water, especially ice-cold water? Morons. The photographer and Megan's favorite director, Karyn Kasuma, stood tall where the towels were. Every time Megan and Karyn were together, it was like 2008 all over again. As Megan was about to roll over onto her back in response to Karyn's cries for redirection, a massive wave pounded on her.

As the water struck Megan's body, it seemed as if she were being struck by frigid bullets or broken glass. It seemed as if her clothing—or lack thereof—did not provide any protection for her body. Hollywood at its best, or at least that's what Megan thought. She emerged from the water with a hollowed-out expression, her fury and contempt evident in her arched eyebrow, as she could still hear the crew laughing.

"Cold?" Jesse chuckled as he stood upright to gather Megan in a warm fluffy towel. His blue eyes watched as small water droplets poured off the tattoo, on her shoulder blade.

"No, I'm not." She sneered with a deadpan voice. Wrapping the towel around her closely, Megan felt her teeth chatter and she then looked up at Jesse, seeing his warm smile. "Thanks, for coming along."

Leaning down, Jesse delicately pressed his nose against Megan's, a half-crescent grin tingeing his lips. He grinned subtly as he saw Megan flush. However, Megan's sudden bending down and starting to shake out her hair quickly ended the brief moment of kindness. Despite his scowl, Jesse only rolled his eyes.

Karyn grinned from behind the 33mm film camera, very proud of the shot. "Regular mermaid stuff, I like it. Though, when are you going to help with the Independent Films? We need more writers."

Megan chewed on her bottom lip, a slight grimace from tasting the salty ocean water that had mixed with her cherry lip gloss. "Mmm, we all know, how I feel about being at those public events."

Jesse, snaked an arm around Megan's small frame. "Plus those events are just a gateway for critical naysayers to have an unwanted opinion."

"You won last year," Megan jabbed as she leaned her damp body into Jesse's. His arm the lowered to her waist and he chuckled as he felt Megan shiver beside him. Karyn eyed them both and then gave a callous shoulder shrug. "Meg, you're a hot commodity, you're what the people want."

The years Megan spent officially disappearing from Hollywood's pretty heightened expectations of her undoubtedly benefitted her, since she was no stranger to public appeal. But she felt a shiver go up her spine at the thought of going to a crowded awards ceremony. Once Megan dried off and changed into dry clothing, the discussion could get back up. Along the way to her trailer's changing room, Jesse accompanied her. Upon entering, Megan combed her hair to remove any remaining water before turning to see Jesse staring at her. She couldn't help but grin at his irresistible good looks and the way his smile revealed his dimples. Jesse remained one of Megan's closest, not strange, Hollywood friends despite the success of the Transformers film, Jennifer's Body, and Megan's other endeavors.

Sitting in peace, they were now both dressed in plush bathrobes and enjoying a few drags from Jesse's cigarette.

"I think you should do it."

"Maybe, maybe..." Megan shrugged, as she expelled the nicotine from her pouty lips. "Who knows, I may be back in Hollywood."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Comics, writing, and exploring unorthodox poetic forms were always Megan's passions. Now that she was alone at home and had given up on the stressful ritual of posing for photos, she was able to unwind in her peaceful surroundings. The den, which included just one architectural style, was her favorite room in her large Calabasas house. An oversized recliner known as a "laxy boy" that had been in her family for many years.

The chair was still an important part of her life, even if the leather was ripping and it had some scratches from her beloved Kitten, whose name she changed every day. Continual struggle between a desire to return to Hollywood and the reality of her non-negotiable demands for equality and far-reaching respect. If that's the case, Megan sees no need to hide her stunning appearance, charisma, and witty humor from the world.

She sat back in her plush chair, legs spread out, eyes wide open, and her jaw hanging open as she began to doodle and sketch. Subsequently, she started penning a succession of little poems underneath each miniature caricature she created.

—

She is shattered, scorched, bruised, and bloodied, yet she is also... identical. The unending resolve of which originates from the tarnished veins inside her. The relentless flow of drugs, the ominous references, and the evasive touch, in which she is but a skeleton, that never lets up.

Having thorns form one's wings means there's no need to worry about looking foolish. When spikes prick you, black magic won't work. There is no such thing as a single butterfly; you must soar.

The menacing smile that curved Megan's lips was impossible to resist. She stopped for a bit after running her fingers over her silken hair. Maybe she is nothing more than these little cartoons and fragments of poetry. Maybe both the enigmatic and the unfathomable. That made her turquoise gemstones eyes sparkle, and she kept writing—the waves and the spirit of everything were seeping in, copacetically groovy.

Soft murmurs of ecstasy.

Visualize, in the darkest corner of your mind—how expansive, pleasure is. Envision the tangles of desire, the tense love that may send shivers down everyone's spine. The idea of satisfying one's hunger with bloodlust has the power to transform unpleasantness into pleasure.

Feeling damp with skin-to-skin contact. The most opulent, savory, delicious, unfettered, and untamed sensation the affection can bestow. Feelings of warmth from touch, chilly exhilaration from rhythms, and the harmony of zero resistance and full focus.

Towards the desired, the unsettling, and the invisible. Envision the wide doors leading to codependency, to being reliant on passion, and to being hit with intense whims. To be the object of someone's desire—to imitate, to yearn over, slobber over, and even kill for? The sharp need, ferocious desire, overwhelming satisfaction, crushing disappointment, and rapid acceleration—of the body aching from all this empathy.

Gaze at the world. You must have noticed it. Have you tried it? Is it something you desire? How was the flavor, texture, and appearance? Would you say that the idea twirls about in your mouth? Imagine yourself without boundaries till your essence knows no bounds; place one hand on your heart and the other on your sensual spot and lust. Imagination, free thought, taunting, and anticipation.

Impertinence

What is the limit of mental brevity? Perhaps too muted at the its conclusion, yet too loud in the initial stages. Only through thorns, through a vague feeling of anything and nothing. We are prepared to gather acceptance, and our spirits will first gather dust.

With what audacity does time pass? Is it inherent or crazy to want to start this life all over? For those who are scared of death, is reincarnation only a means to pass the time?

Maybe we will get back up and try again when we wilt under the weight of the daring, the liberation, the desired, the complex, and the fray. For all 365 days are just points in the beginning. To begin again, to put an end to the beginning, and to face the seemingly endless darkness with courage. As an obtrusive matter, life has only just started. All of human history—the rise and fall of empires, the annihilation of species, and so on—is only a cycle of beginnings and endings. Yes, we can, and will succeed if we are brave and give it another go.

—Indulgent.

I: A captivating technique that achieves no progress at all. That maybe the evildoer in our world should be nothing less than...everything. Disappearing and rediscovering the pleasure in life would be an incredible experience.

II: Everyone aspires to be the most outstanding, but it's not necessary. Dirty, condescending, and unmotivated wants. Treating oneself to nothing while expecting it to be something. Could this be an unresolved issue? Maybe it's the core of what's always been within all along?

III: There is meaning in decaying flowers; they convey the past. On the other hand, what if the actuality of things wasn't what they ought to have been? Unwanted assumptions about things that aren't there are caused by lengthy explanations.

IV: Caught between the forbidding existence. Entangled, as if a book had an old rose in it. Commonplace, unwritten musings that impede thought. It would be lovely to be able to start again every once in a while. To have a spiritual rebirth and to put one's service beyond any consideration for the outside world.

V:When life is thrust upon us, there are no rules. Here we are, living in the shadow cast by the precarious specter of mortality. Knowing that this is all a mirage should bring true peace to our hearts. To wallow in self-pity and shut off all signs of life while one sits and mopes. Perhaps we try that? To what end does it aspire? Caught up in the trap of excessive perfection. Everything that makes up this enormous hub of life—tears, wounds, scars, and pounding hearts—is interconnected. To be captivated, inspired—but by everything in life.