Hanging in the Moment

I feel... like filled with butterflies. But not the "I'm in love" butterflies, but the giddy ones. I'm wrapped in somebody's mind, a penpal, a messaging friend whose words and ideas are addictive like nicotine. Shall I dubb him Nico? The conversation among us is so rich and fluid and it splits up ripe and open, digging into the sweet honey dripping from a past of darkess and forbiden pleasures typed down for the secretive pleasure of those always cloaked by the use of many images different from their own, and names different from their given ones.

Such addictive, secretive pleasures, it's like descending to hell dancing each step, savouring the burning fumes of sulphur.

And so I was reminded of a time when I became the Confessor Priest of many, and the darkest sins were whispered into my ears in order to be granted redemption through falling into them, finding a pit to satisfy such unsuitable cravings, growing greedy for more.

I feel like sliding back to those warm, putrid pits of the net, dig for new flesh, new minds, new sins to feed on. It sounds so wrong, but it can't be more right. The hypnotizing beauty of that cloaked side of people, that cannot be revealed for many, many reasons, but which with understanding, a bit of comfort opens the doors of beautiful psyches.