Why Gemïny

I never had an addictive personality, not in the traditional sense. Don’t get me wrong, I would never claim to be a saint, far from it. I indulged in recreation from time to time, but at any given moment, I could flip that switch. There were no compulsions, no grueling withdrawals, and seething agony; I just stopped. Maybe my brain was too far gone to register any new sensations, already too numb. Too overcome by an insistent need to suppress all emotions, to the point my essence had become completely void of any dopamine; Maybe. Well… actually… I have a quote for this;

One second, let me look in the back…

Here it is:

“I liked hunting girls.
Mentally, not physically, I never hit a girl in my life… the thing is, I got off on it. I really enjoyed it.
It’s like when you hear serial killers say they feel no regret, no remorse for all the people they killed. I was like that. Loved it. I didn’t care how long it took either because I was in no hurry. I’d wait until they were totally in love with me. Till the big saucer eyes were looking at me. I loved the shock on their faces. Then the glaze as they tried to hide how much I was hurting them…”

Yes! That was my high, and I craved it like a fire in my chest. The heat spreads with every beat of your heart, growing hotter and fiercer until you’re sure it will consume you whole. Flickering just behind your ribs, whispering of satisfaction, of release, but the moment you seek to quench it, the flames enrage ever brighter, scorching every thought like dry prairie glass and pushing you back to a craving: unextinguished. Just thinking about it, ugh! I can smell crisp and bracing breaths of the ocean, carried by a sharp wind mingling with the earthy undertones of waning, wet sands and distant waves, leaving a trace of coolness lingering in the air – a reminder of the vast, endless horizons they dreamt of. Yes, where others may see tender shades of blue that evoked a desire to express care and compassion, I only saw a tantalizing crimson to subdue my bloodlust. Truthfully, I can’t help but shamelessly lick my lips as I write this, thinking of my playful mating dance. Moving through the room with a quiet intensity, scanning with eyes: cold and calculating; always just a moment too slow to meet your gaze, but always watching. Always waiting. Stalking with a smile that never dared touch my eyes – simply lingering on my lips like a thin, ravening, hollow… thing. Words were always carefully chosen, wrapped in the softest undertones. Still, they constantly cut more profoundly than the steadiest surgical apparatuses ever could. And when those silk-wrapped hexes escaped my lips, the air in the room always seemed to thicken; the light itself hesitated, unsure whether it should settle in my shadow. I left each victim feeling small and uncertain if the ground beneath them could shift without warning. If they would fall into a space where no one would find them. Yes: tantalizing.

That’s the only addiction to consume my being. The only thing I’ve ever known myself to be. Nothing more, nothing less. But since Her star flickered to a chilling dusk, it feels I am no more than a shell. Truthfully, that’s too kind of a description. I’d become no more than a porcelain husk, a splintering container for abandon and ruin. And now, all I crave is to be whole. 

Confusing. 

Isn’t it?