With love, your melancholy whore (Part 4)

They claim that beauty is only a superficial splendour. Just as reddened cheeks are replaced by wrinkles, and once pumped lips turned crisped.1

Baby, why don't you try true love? Let that heart-warming essences fill your heart so sweetly, like a CK euphoria tracing your heart into paradise. They said.2

I saw. I tried. But I fail to conquer. 3

He came into the bar and pressed his lips so firmly against mine as the speakers played a sensual series of trance. I clung my arms around his neck, as if he is the savior of my complicated life. 4

Sweet, paradoxic 2007 in half-hearted paradise.5

I was slowly entranced by his montage of French kisses, as tongues merge into sequins of lost love, like the resurgence of love's forbidden language. He caressed my scars, bit by bit, as if granting me entrance to the heavens of happiness.6

'Je t'aime, Angelina. Would you allow me to cherish you forever?' he asked so tenderly.7

Perhaps that was love, or a flashback.8

This was the 50th date. A reunion with my beloved artist after 3 months of vacation. You may question my nature of vacation, after all, my business was to provide ritualistic caresses to men, satisfying that yelping call for lust. Yet Shinjuku has escalated itself into a blooming patchwork of sex, drugs and rock and roll: blue-eyed beauties ready to seduce any men with the legendary wink; youngsters recruited into heroin production and more cliche rock bands. Aphrodite's palace eventually closed, I became a freelance columnist, making your everyday boredom my artistic masterpieces.9

Fast forward.10

We met as our ripples of hugs devoured each other and manifested into a state of bliss. Just as time's pendulum wore out after millenia, our 3-month bliss transformed into a reunion of artificial love. Once fiery passions turned into frozen flames, and blood-red roses sang their blue melodies. 11

Hugs became iconographies of goodwill, and cherish chronicled itself into the archive, locked into my bleeding black heart.12

'Angelina, could we just end this relationship? We were both time's slaves, with appointments everywhere, and I don't know how to accept your past..'13

'But je t'aime moniseur, you were my everything that I would yearned to wait for. I have never experienced the grandeurs of love until..'14

He sealed my lips with an epic french kiss, 'This love will only bring suffering for us, but you will be in my enclave of memories, and please, promise me that you will meet with me whenever you are free.'15

My tears bled into a wash of melancholy tunes. The waiter's flirtation won't entertain me, nor the comfort of alchol. Perhaps quitting is an altruistic act, but it seems to me like the death of Venus*, or showers of overflowing cynicism.16

My frustration led into a series of flashbacks: the French artist and his love for aesthetic beauty; Takada-san's traumatized romance with Yuhi's death (his desperation to find alternatve love); the gangster's rough rape in the currency of lust; Mr.K's crave for a listener and now..my beloved's sacrifice. They were all manifestations of love, all bounded into different emotional realms.17

Perhaps Romeo and Juliet, or Venus and Mars have already ceased in the golden age of postmodernity. Perhaps true love is a lying rhyme to comfort children in our era of uncertainty. Perhaps life is a replica of Pandora' box.18

So I left in my stilettos: locking your sweet reminiscence into my tote, on a quest in life's ecstasies. Perhaps, indulgence.