Amatory

—Amatory—

It is an intense, tense, and physically present amotory atmosphere. It wasn't a location, however; it was one individual. Yes, that was her. Like a storm brewing over the sea, her jet-black hair tumbles down her back. Her piercing blue eyes are overflowing with fiery, tearful, and dangerously passionate emotion. Almost feral feline zeal, dangerous passion, and fever. How can she contain, hold, and sustain this—vile evilness?

She may be a sin in and of herself, a rebel without a strong reason to stand up. However, it is the root cause of spiritual rebellion, leading people to ignore their intellect in favor of their physical selves. The forbidden is barely touched by her delicate, heavenly fingertips. Her lips want for nothing more than to harvest kisses like fresh cherries—desiring, longing, spurned in hope.

Passion on a superficial level is not what she desires. She has shifted her focus from films depicting glitzy romance to those depicting darker, more violent kind of love that end in bloodshed. This causes the heart to race, the skin to perspire in a desolate state, and the mind to awaken and act on its final impulse.

She asks to be dragged down because she needs it. Wants to be controlled, tamed—desires uninvited, unlawful, soul-bending, skin-weeping love. Because she knows it inside and out, she is able to provide it. From the beginnings of the black threaded roots of her hair, all the way to her toes.

This kind of love and longing is within her capabilities and will remain a secret wish of hers. No, she's not going to summon Cupid. Because of this, love is purposefully played over and over again like a broken record. Rather, she will squeal with pleasure, emitting a low, whimsical sound, and then wait for the reverberation. The reason being that someone must inevitably respond.

unwilling to separate the mind and emotions. Nevertheless, wild, unruly, raspy and vibrating.

Feeling feverishly down in any and all places, while desperately seeking that one spot where everything will finally make sense. Cold, ice eyes that desire to melt, heated lips, and creased emotions.

Cherry thrilled with its softness and delicacy. Even yet, she is nefarious and alarming with the pits of hell stored deep inside her. Having an overwhelming desire to immerse oneself in something or someone.

Is it possible to rein her in, brand her, and put her straight? On the other hand, is she trying to find the right quantity, like two sides of a coin?

A Tale of Whoa.

My sanity is too important to risk any longer. Furthermore, I will not consent to the manipulation of my spirit. That's done, and fresh chapters await. This is not meant to be a warning, but rather an account of my own personal growth and development.

I have had enough of wishing for "maybes." No veiled trechorary for me. I shall prioritize my soul above anything else. I am aware of my worth. I am well aware of my level of belonging. My talents are no longer in doubt. End of lengthy explanations.

Life is at my fingertips, waiting to be savored. And I have, paying attention to the ever-present, now-visible. I refuse to be degraded, objectified, or pummeled into an unhealthy state of mindlessness any more. Whether it's because of myself or some other driving force in the universe. No, this is the story of the whoa, the resolute rebellion against what I will permit; it is not a cautionary tale.

Placate.

Somewhere, in the depths, ties and drones crash into one another. Creating a barrier between those who drift and those who are drifted.

It calls and whines in low, eerie sounds. "Have I been here before?" it asks immediately. Has it?

Assuaging a sense of urgency is illegal. No matter the circumstances, one must experience all emotions.

Emotion, real and felt, is the lifeblood of the soul's twisting core. Anticipate that it would get easier with each effort.

The soul will be found in those gloomy, lonely corners of one's psyche. The space between them will shrink as the spirit finds its own rhythm.

Domate remains emotionless and icy until the appointed hour comes. Instead of appeasing, heat up and mend, reset and feel. In order to feel anything, you must not tame it.

Venom Fame—Solo.

In the mirror of her dressing room, Megan peered at her reflection. She was carefully examining her bare face, which will likely be covered with foundation shortly. Megan would insist that every makeup artist hide her freckles when she was first starting out in "Hollywood" doing what her mom referred to as "the starter pack" of modeling. Now that she was older and had survived the emotionally draining stardom period, she couldn't care less about hiding her freckles. Her freckles were her bruises, and she was proud of them, much like the narrator in Fight Club. Why shouldn't she take pride in her imperfections, her freckles? Along with everything else that distinguishes her from the "typical" Hollywood beauty optimal.

Upon contacting her for an interview, VOGUE placed a strong focus on having a photoshoot. At the time of the conversation, Megan could only convey her indecision; she didn't agree until yesterday. Even she was anticipating the interview questions with a trite mind, knowing that sarcasm never looks well on paper. She thought she had run out of things to say after talking on the phone with her brother James this morning on the way to the set. Besides Megan's three pals, James was likely the only one with whom she had meaningful conversations.

Even the prospect of being on VOGUE's cover, much alone being interviewed, was something Megan really disliked. In any case, why did they insist that she do it? Megan was stereotyped as a shallow, self-centered "Dark like Witch woman" by the public and media throughout the world. How far from the truth could they get? Many in Hollywood were irritated by Megan since she had strong opinions. Nobody liked it, and when they understood she wasn't only a "pretty face" or a "sex symbol," they were shocked.

With her tongue gliding across her teeth, she continued to examine herself in the mirror. After almost two months of complete isolation in Palm Springs, her jet-black hair was beginning to show signs of fading from the excessive sun exposure. Whoever was doing Megan's hair and cosmetics today could just apply a little temporary hairspray to darken her locks again, she reasoned. There was a time crunch, and she wanted to get dolled up as soon as possible so she could undress and return to her isolation.

Within fifteen minutes Megan was sitting in the chair, having small talk with the makeup artist. She nodded lightly, not wanting to disrupt the craft, that was happening.

"You haven't really done an interview in like two years." Her artist pointed out, as he outlined her eyes with blue eyeliner.

Megan smirked, and what a good two years it had been. "Massive seclusion is something I really enjoy. This..." Trailing off, Megan crossed her left leg over her right one and sighed, giving a shrug as to finish off the rest of her thought.

Her artist nodded shortly, reaching behind him to grab the soft palet brush. Dipping it, in a honey like gloss; he delicately swept it across her bottom lip. "Everyone goes through a period of hating stardom."

"I don't hate what I do, I don't hate films; I enjoy acting." Pausing, Megan tried to find the correct words to convey her thoughts. "I just dislike the media hysteria of hive minds. I make dark jokes, I hate tattoos, and all of sudden I'm possibly crazy? Yes, I may be crazy but that doesn't stop me from having worthwhile opinions."

Megan saw it as a sign that her makeup artist was either uncomfortable with her or was just accustomed to dealing with egotistical celebrities who revel in gushing about the wonderful implications of fame and notoriety since he remained silent. As the glamor continued, Megan maintained her composure. In case things went south during the interview, she was already planning an aggressive strategy.

It was easy for Megan to see herself wearing her first set of clothes on a daily basis. In a profound way, it paid tribute to the traditional Dolce & Gabbana. An ebony gown adorned with dazzling gemstones. It clung to her figure, drawing attention to her bust, and enhancing her figure in a lovely manner. Megan and the stylist had a little argument during the fitting because Megan did not want to hide her tattoos. Just what was its purpose? Neither the need nor the desire compelled her to do so.

Surprisingly, the photoshoot turned out well. Each clothing that was picked out for Megan was just fantastic, and she couldn't believe it. She donned a plethora of gowns, some of which were stunning tributes to classic Hollywood styles, and embellished pantsuits. All the way down to the shoes' heels, which Megan was relieved to be able to retain for herself. After the session, Megan removed her makeup and changed into her own stylish clothing.

Her shoes, black pants, and a Motley Crew tee. Before heading outside and settling upon the crimson sofa, she brushed some gloss over her pouty lips and tousled her hair. Hoping that this time during her interview with VOGUE, her remarks would be accurately reported and not misquoted, she raised her head forward to take in the illumination. It was an unrealistic expectation; Megan was well-versed in the machinations of Hollywood.

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"You spoke about the position of women in Hollywood, is that something you think people don't like to hear?"

"I do. Many people want women to be offended or pushed into a place of complimence with their sexual allure." She paused, musing a hand through her hair and continued. "It's not something I'm ashamed of and no other woman should be for that matter."

The next couple of questions were light hearted and a few about when's the next time Megan would be seen on the big screen. Grinning a bit, the cute actress tugged at her left ear and shrugged.

"That's all subjective right now, I mean I want to be casted in something that really shakes me. I want to work with people whom get along and everyone has fun."

"Do you often dislike some of your co-stars?"

Tricky question. Megan sat forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Who hasn't disliked a few people they've worked with. And, I'm sure I've pissed off a lot of people whom I've worked with too. But, I'm older now, changing so that's all that matters."

As the interview was wrapping towards the end, Megan and the interviewer became wrapped in a conversation of various topics. The ambiance of the interview was light; which surprised the brunette.

"You said that you wished you could shave your head, move out of the country and just be with three lovers? Somewhere, indulging in psychedelics and not returning to Hollywood, is that true?"

Megan, now drew her left leg up to her chest and chuckled at her own words. She couldn't help but wonder who the interviewer had contacted for the comment, let alone why it seemed to be so polarizing. "Yeah, I did say that."

"Is that still something you want?"

Megan began explaining, using her hands for added animation and emphasis. "...I love what I do, and I haven't gone completely insane yet as you can see. I still have my hair, not bald. But who knows." Giggling lowly, she pressed on. "The scrutiny of who I am, the tattoos I have, the people I date or don't date are always the speculated topic. And, I just don't enjoy that type of attention. So yeah, I wanna shave my head. I get hot when I'm trying to do my hair all the time; I'm like a pain in the ass when it comes to getting ready. Having three lovers is just me wanting to free, and slightly unserious. I don't know, I love, the idea of true love. And the whole never returning to Hollywood... I'm still here aren't I? Not officially sane, but still here."

The interview ended well. Megan shared her thoughts and offered proof on how certain psychodelics might heighten consciousness. In general, Megan felt somewhat better about her VOGUE interview this time around. Doubtful that she would conduct a slew of interviews and hit the press circuit. However, Megan was certain that this one would deter her for a while. That is, until she decided to audition for a film part, which would require her to do repeated sit-down interviews in which she would have to defend herself against criticism of her statements.

It was that venom of Hollywood that kept Megan here. That controlled and uncontrolled chaos, which Megan hated and loved all at the same time.

𝚂𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚞𝚜, 𝚂𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚍, 𝙸𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚎.

"I lost you, my friend. Everything from the summertime lush grass to the wintertime snowfall, to the wind. You are no longer with me."

"Fore' you never had me. Though I existed, it was just for a moment. A delicate, unpleasant one, which you were not interested in."

"But I, I do, want you now."

"Now?" Brows wrinkle, as if a satanic rustling were emanating from the dwindling soul. "You want me now? Since you no longer have any of me, it is impossible for you to crave more of me now."

"I am wiser now, my friend."

"And now, my friend, I'm gone. No longer will you ever see me."

We can't possibly know who we are going to become if we cling to our ideals of what we ought to be. Our eyes are not only looking for external sights, but also for internal ones. A sensation is present in every part of the body, just as there are eyes and a mouth in the soul and the heart. In our view, there are essentially two components to each of us: our minds and our hearts. There are so many different components—neurons, atoms, nerves, blood plates, hairs, fractions of hairs—how can we narrow it down to just two? Aren't we worth more? Is it not true that we are loved more than we know? Is it possible to develop de-self-worth in order to develop an internal sense of self-worth? Could our beating hearts decide anything? Do we no longer exist? Have we lost all of our humanity, our callings, our brilliance, and our faith? Before we ask for what's next, we lose what's not nourished, and we miss what never was.