Meet the Fox

See, I am not a wolf. I'm not a bear either, nor a tiger or a lion. What I prefer shadowy, stealthy action, where I am supposed to be is behind the curtains, only revealing myself for a brief and well planned strike before vanishing for good. I am not a front line warrior and fighting in melee with force and bloodlust has no charm over me. I am coldblooded and sly and that is the way I like myself to be. Until recently, my golden bet was a cat. Yet in a conversation with a friend it stroke that a cat brings an undesired trait on table: a cat is female.

A fox possesses all the qualities of a cat, but it is male. It's nible, it's subtle, it's cunning. It hunts with trickery and ambush rather than brutal force. Yet it is bereft of any feline feminism. It is a he. I have never been a sexist, but there certainly is some romantic appeal of two genders' existence. Different in a sense, but not comparatively different. No single one is inferior, neither one is superior. The two abstract images you can tell apart, equivalent, but not the same. Different flavours, not the abilities. I'm no longer shy about leaning to the cunning side whilst staying a male. I'm a fox.

The Name of the Dæmon

It's said that in order to defeat a dæmon, one has to weaken them by means of knowing their true name. The crafty sods often assume long names with scaring titles in an attempt to conceal their actual nature. Kerath the Unbreakable? Anatheira the Destroyer? Lirath of Helheim? Words carry the meaning, they create impressions, they build a false image of what would be a mere cat's bristling otherwise. Cut the name and you will free your perception of any infusion and misconception the fiend is trying to infest you with. Once trivialized, stripped of his deceiving verbal raiment, little more a dæmon is than a miserable quivering creature. Fetch a knife fast and offer it a swift journey through the wicked beast's throat for no carapace of fancy aliases will be there to prevent the bloodshed. Once an emotion can be named in full and correct qualification it immediately loses all of its holy immunity. You know what to do, right?

Now then, how am I called again?

The Philatelist

Some time ago, I visited the house of my grandmother's sisters. It's a century old building with garden, right in the heart of Bila Tserkva city, a standing guardian of old times flanked with newly built modern wannabe-skyscrapers. It's ancient, it have been long falling victim to corrosion. Moreover, one would say, this hut has to be razed at once to give place for the new generation of housing, better ones in any reasonable respect. Yet, in my idealistic eyes, it stands as one beacon of romance, as a memorial to times which came to pass but bore the diversity of feelings which evaded my soul. Times and pictures I never passed through my perception for real, still ones I hunger to experience. This is just a same burst of emotion as when seeing an old castle: the lifeless rocks serve no real purpose anymore but a basis to build an imaginary panorama on.

I have yet so hear this from a professional psychologist, but naïve socionical tests give me a trio of psychotypes: schizoid, hysteroid and sensitive. In simple words, this means that I seek sharp images and impressions in life, but also have an ability to augment them to insane sizes and proportions inside my mind. Must admit, this is not untrue. This is why I have a deep love-hate relationship with vintage photos. Give me one and I will be trapped, sucking the impressions out of it and reconstructing the feelings an observer would have back then while realizing that world being long gone. In fact, any strong picture would do. An infant crowning his deceased bride in an attempt to restore her honour. Two young lovers crossing sights near the sea to declare their mutual feelings. A young emperor claiming the independence of a newly founded state from his own royal bloodline. Interestingly, I would not like to be in their shoes, it's just an overall image and associated feelings I admire. Werd' ich zum Augenblicke sagen: Verweile doch! du bist so schön!. This kind of relationship with reality. Guess I never associate myself with an actor, but much rather a scriptwriter or director. Sometimes I fail to instantiate myself as a living person but not an abstract third person observer. I have a picture on my phone reminding I'm a human. It's silly of me, but the thing works like a charm, effectively being a cold slap right into the mind carried away.

That said, this highlights a dangerous psychological trait in me I should be wary of. Whenever I am set ablaze by any an obsessive idea, what is it as a matter of fact? Is this something I may swear allegiance to or just a mantle I wish to try on for a delicious momentary emotion complex? So far, both options have been happening. Thus, importantly, when I will name her my life companion, it this a true willingness of making an long term bond, or is it just me, thinking a photo of us together would look neat?

Not half the man I used to be

The time has come, the Walrus said, to think of many things. As an introvert, I always live in a protective shell and have difficulty evolving further. If there is a need of change it is always a third voice which calls for them. It is always adapting my conservative self to fit somebody requirements. Despite my wisdom and because my pride, every a such effort meets the resistance from inside as if I was squeezing a steel spring. Now not only my limitless egoism can save me from committing to a reform. For I myself am the one who is not satisfied with my own backward stance.

Sometimes I notice myself taking after House early in season 6. I spare my carelessness as if it had something to do with me being genius and special. I take infantilism as a panacea for mental aging. I still admire my schooltime achievements not having noticed myself grown out the sandbox stuff and the world moving quite a leap forward since then. I recite my sins from the past as if those haunts had more value than tales to tell grandchildren near the fireplace. No matter what I say, deep in the core, I live in past and this ultimately this should be put to an end.

When a larva undergoes a transition into an adult imago, only the nervous system is left intact. That said, it's evident that in pupa a butterfly is not made anew from scratch, but it's still a caterpillar who was given a brand new instance. If a tiny insect is capable of such a selective transition, why would I, a pinnacle of creation, be disallowed to given enough effort and desire? Jesus once told that Kingdom of Heaven can be likened to gathering fruit and tares apart on a field. I have it easier, for I have but a handful of traits worth keeping against the myriad of foul weed to root. It must only be a matter of self-discipline.

Scorching out

I've not even fallen in love. I'm bloody obsessed. Senses falling apart and paranoia prevailing, I barely can grasp myself together, but in my madness I am still wise to have set myself a goal, visible through any a stirred reason. Whether this insanity is a gift or a punishment from the divine, I should be a fool not to use the opportunity. However the only tool is available in this stance: fire.

Fire! Bright flames transforming all matter to a pile of smoldering cinder. Those who never had felt through the notion of destruction shall never grasp the principle of conservation. It's not until the loss that one learns to value. Fire makes no discrimination between what you no longer need and what you might just happen to realize you will need in future. After being scorched, the thing ceases to exist. Quail not, however, to set ablaze more than you originally wanted. What you are in need of you can easily recover, for the manuscripts don't burn(to quote Bulgakov), yet all the weed pest, vines and roots drawing one down will inevitably perish. Fire is a panacea for crowding, it gives space for a newer generation and quite a few times is the only reasonable way to do so.

Let ignited be everything that stands besides. Let faces be forgotten, promises lifted, sins forgiven and never spoken of again. Let everything burn, let me be bereft of diversity in favour of valuable space and freedom of action. On the ashes will I found a novel park, renewed, fresh and devoid of haunting by faces and deeds of the past. Let the paper sheet be clear once again so I get the ability to actually draw what seems hardly possible to even dream of at the moment.