Tuesday, March 11, 2014


I am fascinated by spindles. Father ensured every material comfort to me yet spindles were disallowed, indeed disbarred. The prospect of encountering a spindle suffused me with great trepidation and excitement. So one day, when father and mother left i chanced upon one, pricked my finger and instantly lapsed into a profound slumber.

I am a blessed girl. The congenial propitiatory boons conferred by the fairies held me in good stead till i pricked my finger. The spindle was the playmate in the mirror i identified as ideal. It represented a form of becoming i consistently and unambivalently aspired to. Little was i to know that anticipation contained foreboding and a foregone conclusion lay shrouded under the patina of irresistible attraction. It seemed in blending myself with my (pre) conception of myself in the mirror, a facsimile at best, a negation at worst i would be self obliterating and becoming not insubstantial but non existent.

This impenetrable slumber is unexciting. Rumination substitutes freneticism. I am quiet, contemplative, my consciousness immanent with intimations of apotheosis that roil within the quadrangles of my mental attic. They swirl and shimmer and billow out in unawakened repose, undisturbed restfulness and an unmediated self sufficiency.

The spindle has become my reality. In my nocturnal colloquies with it i colluded in this spiritual enervation and entropic non being where somnambulism became both de rigueur and the raison d etre of my being. I don't know in what path my transcendence lies or whether there is any. All the fairy stories i heard as a girl buttressed me, became a canopy under which my sense of belief or leap of faith was sheathed in the precarious integument of a tenuously durable self consciousness.

I am incarcerated in the catacomb of my femininity, my desire for femininity, my soldering to corporeal femininity, my intense love, passion and hunger for my own like.This proclivity always seemed unconsummatable to me and i repressed it, presenting an outward simulacrum of conformity.

I awaken, a handsome butch prince kisses me. Exhalations of disillusionment ricochet of me because while awakening was greatly anticipation happiness was to have been its accompaniment. I was kissed again but as my fingers clamped to push his body away from me i encountered firm breasts with hardened nipples. As my fingers meandered down and felt for the prick beneath the tunic i encountered a blank space, an aperture that was to be my inroad into the bliss i envisaged. I kissed her back. 

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