Autophagy*

Picture by alizzzz is stolen from here. 

I taste like clouds.

The scissor didn't hurt as much as I'd thought. Its point slipped through the fibre of my skin delicately, elegantly. The blades snipped through me almost by its own volition, its jaws opening and closing with unexpected gentleness, separating the threads tenderly.

I taste like clouds.

I look down as the scissors progressed from the base of my belly, moving up and up, all the way to my throat. The blades stopped. My skin separated beneath the pressure of the incision.

I taste like clouds.

Almost immediately my stuffings fell out, like eager children after the bell rang, tumbling out the door that had confined them. My stuffings billowed out like exuberant clouds racing through the sky of a sunny afternoon. It fell out between my paw-feet, pillowy soft. I could feel the pressure within me ease. My knee gave way and I slumped against the wall.

I taste like clouds.

My paw-hand trembled as I scooped up what once gave me form and dimension. It seemed wrong to leave it wasted on the floor. I didn't know what to expect. It was soft and springy, the darker pink contrasted beautifully with the pale shell of my skin.

I taste like clouds.

I squeezed my hand-paw. I thought I'd feel a tug within, but nothing. My stuffing regained its former fluff, with a faint trace of the shape of my palm. The slight breeze from the fan made it quiver. I didn't notice as more spilled out of me, decorating the floor with whimsy.

I taste like clouds.

My stuffing crossed my lips. It was like a blissful sacrament of tenderness and joy. The sweetness was indescribable. It rested on my tongue for an eternity, before my jaws moved slowly, my teeth grinding my stuffing industriously, thoughtfully.

I taste like clouds.

The adults always tell you not to play with scissors, but they don't know what I know now: the scissors were a liberator. I am now free of the weight of my form and function.

I can just be.

I am.

Free.

*Title is taken from the biology term that describes "eating one's self". Cross-posted on writing blog and Facebook.

Finally ...

Another part of the on-going story on faithlessness.

It can be found here.

D is for Denial

It's never our fault. It's always someone else's fault.

Right?

Right?

A is for admire

I have no talent for drawing or any kind of art-linked endeavours. Couldn't even draw a straight line with a ruler. But I love pretty things and these pictures below really speak to me.

These are the works of Ms. Rebecca Mock.

 

My favourite activity in my favourite mode of transportation.

Age doesn't inhibit embracing technology.

 I love the eloquence of her art, elevating something as prosaic as reading on a train or in the outdoors into something whimsical and delightful. The pictures are so evocative, you could almost feel the movement of the train of the warm breeze caressing your skin while you lounge on the balcony. The feel of the grass under you separated by the blanket. You could almost hear the chirp of birds and the buzz of bees collecting nectar in the flourishing garden.

Doesn't her work remind you of the animated pictures and portraits in the Harry Potter series?

M is for Mask

Duplicitious.

Subtle.

Indirect.

Devious.

Women are often portrayed as conniving plotters and vile seducers out to victimise poor, hapless men. From centuries old fairy tales to the latest television hits, pop culture and literature are littered with women who are evil (i.e. has her own agenda that doesn't serve a man's), wily (i.e. respectable intelligence is only for men), bossy (i.e. only men are forceful), and the list goes on.

Why can't women be forthright, many men say. Why can't women be open about what they want and be honest about their true motivations? Why are women always saying A but actually meant B?

Dear readers, we are made that way.

(sic)

Many women grow up thinking that they need to present a certain front to the world. They are expected to be pretty, to be personable, to be nice, to be demure and subservient to the authorities in their life (namely, the men). They have to be a good daughter - do the chores, mind the younger siblings, cook the meals, be home by 6 pm, and come home with bushels of As for the exams. They are expected to be a great girlfriend -  the obedient wife - the undemanding mother.

And if they can't? Well ... fake it till you make it.



Lyrics to the awesome song is here.