Catherine La Mort Papillon [Part One]

Life in the abstract, breath is taken away. Pouring in the drops of tears. Death in purest form. The new world sun. Severance, all the solitude. Life in one's own pursuit. From Australian landmarks, to Russian can can dancers, you'll never see a guillotine. Yet for me all I see is the blond girl, once a goose girl.

The top of her dress is ripped, exposing her gentle neck.

In her wooden shoes, gently trembling she lowers her neck onto the lower stock. There is a drum roll, men with bayonets dulling the crowd. The angular blade falls down. Head, with the light locks falls in wicker upon severance of neck, blood spatter. Barely old enough to read the darker and grimmer Goldilocks, as she wore wooden shoes with no socks. Her clogs are sold on the open market, gambled on by deranged bidding. Then landed a spot in the museum of anonymity, of 19th century artifacts. The last stand of the illiterate.

Yet sometimes in time, there are new opportunities.

The new life of Trepas.

And one longs for Zen, In a kinder, gentler world... Je Attraper Un Papillon. Butterfly. It's wings spread far. Soars far into the void. Serenity beckons the broken. The torn. I don't understand people my age, and those younger than my old age. Yet I am only the age of two past a quarter century. The Winter sun is looming in the sky, the falling snowflakes. Beyond the century edge, an old world comes to an end. And yet! There are lovers who pretend, that a new world begins. There was me and my darling Trepa, the claimant. Who thought she descended from Catherina Trepa. The little girl of death, the murder of life. Because she alone saw what propaganda does to other humans. She feigns to love me, yet love me not. How many I longed for her, that I forgot. Yet for other there was only polite smiles of Vous—for she alone felt not comfort, for the concept of Tu.

She who held butterflies.

The reincarnation of Death.

Her smile brightens.

Un Aime on the coast, where in the morning a toast is served. The girl of smiles, who served adversity in the form of happy snacks. More American than anything else, she served barbecue weenies. All covered in hot sauce and spice. She tries to understand me, Je try to comprehend the one who seeks to try.

Je Parlons of how some high school girls refer to Je as creepy. Though Je never asks why they stare at me. Yet my love is for Trepa and not Nous. They have some self-esteem that assumes Je accepter the dance, yet for me my dance is with Trepa. Yet Trepa does not like to dance. Ce La Vie. Her life, her chance. Yet no desires. Only fear for that exotic prance. Trepa attraper un Papillon with her gentle closing of her small hands. Yet she refuses to poke its wings. She is haunted by the memoirs of her childhood, of the decapitated fille. Her old life visits her in dreams.

For she danced the wrong bewitching dance.

For she danced the death of time to Napoleon.

Trepa dreams of a world with none of herself.

She dreams of a life where immigrant girls like Catharina, who can dance with freedom. To the tune of their own music box.

The music boxes of joy.

For me as her close acquaintance, yet not to the level of Tu, for me only Vou, she loves peculiarly when I pick her dancing shoes. Yet for me I only know of slow music box rhythmic blues. Catherina Trepa, I call her. Who smiles Catherina's smile, and longs to dance the dance of the new princess Catherina.

She connects with her old life.

And smiles again, and with a kiss, releases the Papillon. She invited me to dance, the dance of the deranged toxic butterfly. The butterfly dance of Trepa. We embrace. I belong to no place or time, my heart has no song or rhyme. I am an identity, timeless, inescapable void. My heart sings no song for any time.

It all started when I visited the great flatlands in the black forest of the night. No more worries, no more concerns. All my concerns melt away tonight. For I am on my own. To be truly alone, to move away somewhere to die. To move somewhere to end it all on my own terms, where I can burn away into dust. I am my own sexuality, my own lust something the only thing I could trust. Yet in my personal night terrors, I dream of darker world beyond the inner sea.

I meet women beyond mortal compare. I meet girls with long black, blond, and beautiful read hair. As I caress their bodies nightly, them coercing my submission only slightly.

There are rolling, rolling, rolling heads everywhere.

And then there was only silence there.

Yet in the day I am no headsman, I find solace in humanity everywhere. I find shame in my own desires, and long to help others overcome their sorrows. As for me sorrow and sex had been closely aligned. For the aspect of female victim hood means something entirely different from being a headsman. Perhaps it is an unexpressed aspect of submissive itself.

For me I am the mistress.

The mistress of my own desires.