As Vivências

Anything For Pleasure; Or, Why Ignite A New Light? [1]

If you take me to the inferno, I will not resist; I will descend each night with you as if it were devotion, and I, its apostate acolyte, prepared to unlearn every sacrament in the name of a sensation so exact, so raw, it must either exalt or mutilate. I am the only one in your life capable of carrying the plunge as consecration - not as punishment, but as an offering crafted in heat, in saliva, in ache. You say we are falling, but I have never stood taller than in your ruin.

They ignited a light - not to guide, nor to warm, but to wound - a spectral filament suspended within the moment, whose combustion neither illuminates nor extinguishes, but survives merely to remind us that desire has no mercy, only appetite. It does not seek redemption. It seeks only repetition.

Nothing belongs to me anymore - not even the breath I waste in this invocation. What I seek must bleed; it must flinch beneath the weight of meaning; it must carry the scent of rot behind its romance, because anything less would be a lullaby, and I no longer wish to sleep.

I bring to the altar my chronology, my nomenclature, my trembling mythologies - I am a palimpsest of transgressions, a vessel not of self, but of willingness. I have no gods left. Only thresholds to be crossed, and even those I offer up like broken hymns on the floor of your silence. I do not want truth. I want to dissolve against the skin of something that cannot be named without trembling.

You opened your eyes, didn't you? You saw the light I placed in your palm - trembling, reluctant - and thought it a gift. But it was not for warmth. It was never paradise. It was a torch. It was a dare. It was an invitation to descend with me, to sever the anchors, to trespass the mirror not to behold what is real but to liquefy inside its excess, to blur until the scream itself becomes ornamental.

The puppet still stirs - that silent witness stitched from longing and memory - and I let it. I dress it in the scent of prior winters, make it construct monuments of snow atop towers built for gods we no longer serve, and I watch, eyes lowered, focused downward not in shame, but in reverence for the abyss that called me by name and found me willing.

I am everything - not as proclamation, but as indictment. I am proof of the sovereign infection. My devotion has forgotten its god. My love has turned against salvation. My pleasure has outlived mercy. There is a density in me, not of heaviness but of tensile grace stretched toward collapse - and still, I offer it. I let the self come undone, strand by sacred strand, until all that remains is warmth, rupture, and the echo of something holy masquerading as filth.

Security was always a myth, a counterfeit sedation - a lullaby for those afraid to feel. But I - I orchestrate symphonies of rupture. I pirouette upon the hem of annihilation. My silence is not surrender. It is sharpening.

So why did you ignite a light you knew you could not extinguish?

Tell the painted women in the sky to cease their seduction. I no longer rise to their mythologies. I have counted their ruins. I have walked through them barefoot. I have kissed their graves.

I will not follow. My price was never innocence. My vow was never clean. My path is carved in ecstatic decay.

So yes - give me the Hallmark. One dream. One life. One lover. But let that pleasure arrive not in blue, but in bruise. Not as salvation, but as evidence.

Que l'âme s'absente, que le plaisir devienne loi.
Nul salut hors jouissance. Nul nom hors offrande.
Là où brûle le désir, Dieu s'efface.

Let it be a wound so intimate it feels like an endearment. Let it be the proof that I have given everything. Anything. For pleasure.