Recently I've adopted the habit of thinking about @Ganasdemorir (along with hundreds more, I suppose). However, I'm not referring to how her recurring image flashes across my mind like a strobe light during the climax of my nocturnal wanks (at least not only during those lapses, I mean). I think about her as one thinks about the end of a book or an indeterminate puzzle, that is, wanting to grasp it, trying to understand why I think there's more to her than simple exhibitionism. Often I wonder why she decided to pour out her morphological magic, ironies, and hinted bitterness onto us. Sometimes I think it's just egocentricity on a stratospheric scale (her habit of not following anyone could be interpreted that way, for example); other times it seems like pure altruism, genuine benevolence, and undeserved kindness (no matter where it comes from; in other words, whether the material provided is from her own hand or a third party is a fact that doesn't really matter too much; what's admirable is that it reaches us, although I know: in many cases the resolution of her images results in something unusual, considering the times we're living in; so those photographs don't manage to do her justice).
His arrival on this page has caused, besides a constant flow of liquid onanistic, several questions: who is he, where is he, does he exist, are those sparks of melancholy certain or dramatic? At some point, the conflict about the authenticity of Ganasdemorir has been unleashed. Can it be real, can it be true this almost numinous being, is it possible to have coincided in this temporal line and on this page of Robertos?, we wondered, with one hand on our chin and the other on the zipper. Why doubt? Simple: because his configuration is incomprehensibly perfect, that collection of specific qualities, like a meditated and built work by a contemporary Pigmalión —more obsessed with beauty than his predecessor—, whose only objective has been the materialization of the most exquisite longings of human minds.
It must be difficult to show your true identity while living behind a pair of unheard-of breasts, locked in an irreparably sicaliptic body; and this does not mean that, on many occasions, this fact is not advantageous, but rather it means living under a prejudice, defeated by one's own physical beauty, which generates fans and enemies, and fans who may behave like enemies, and enemies who may behave like villains. The combination of prodigious beauties (anatomical and mental) is a dangerous elixir for whoever possesses it and for those who encounter its bearer.
I think Ganasdemorir belongs to that reduced group of people who, with their mere presence, are capable of perverting everything, even infecting the most tranquil minds with the worst kind of disease, without even intending to; I can imagine them sliding through the crowd, with a face indifferent or disgusted or perhaps satisfied, and after them leaves a corrupting trail, imperceptible, infectious.
It's complicated for me to accurately describe this girl (and I'd like to avoid common clichés, since it's not my intention to emphasize the obvious). My vision regarding Ganasdemorir is quite limited; nonetheless, I'll try to define her profile as best I can. She's a character taken from a Raymond Chandler fiction, a 'femme fatale' in potential, a silent hedonist who looks at herself and others' eyes with a narcissistic hint, a voyeur of herself, sometimes caught up in a struggle to overcome (or equal) her carnal gifts with her intelligence, but finds the wall almost insurmountable, and smiles and suffers for the same reason.
She could be all good and all bad, she could be the precursor to an obsession, a kaleidoscope of virtues and vices that intertwine and don't allow you to guess the borders.
I confess that, in an unsuccessful attempt to complete the rest of the frame —the missing elements of this Exodia—, I have searched for it, vaguely, in the entrails of all video chat pages I've been able to; I've waited for each of its updates; I've tried to read between the lines its words, photo headings written with its impeccable orthography, cynical comments and responses, and analyzed —trying to escape its magnetism— the objects that accompany the background of its images. And now I write what I have. I discover nothing or very little.
Sometimes I asked Ganasdemorir why he had chosen that name. Because he blew my wad and I'm like this, no more.It was her response. It would have been easier to call herself TetasExtraterrestres or Solita27 or NiñaCastigada or OgtRosa. But no. She decided to call herself LaLloronaWays to DelayIn her, an apparent tragic element lurks derived from intimate experiences that only allow imprecise conjectures; and she complains about her 'existential monotony', and complains about going to class and occasional activities; and then, calmed down, returns, and requests musical recommendations or Netflix suggestions, or suggests a small 'roleplay'.
Now I know, however, that the urges to die are not only hers, but mine, ours, of all those who started following her, absolutely captivated, and little by little we have arrived at the conclusion that she is on the other side of the crystal, unreachable, in another dimension, more and more haunted by the implausibility of her miraculous composition.
And after all this useless paraphernalia, what I have left to say to Ganasdemorir (if it happens to read this) is that, please, continue leaving those small clues - although not too many, to keep the mystery - and it would be nice to read more, dare to intercalate her obvious thanks with her subtle ones.
From the periphery, with love until your Argentinized Madagascar.
His arrival on this page has caused, besides a constant flow of liquid onanistic, several questions: who is he, where is he, does he exist, are those sparks of melancholy certain or dramatic? At some point, the conflict about the authenticity of Ganasdemorir has been unleashed. Can it be real, can it be true this almost numinous being, is it possible to have coincided in this temporal line and on this page of Robertos?, we wondered, with one hand on our chin and the other on the zipper. Why doubt? Simple: because his configuration is incomprehensibly perfect, that collection of specific qualities, like a meditated and built work by a contemporary Pigmalión —more obsessed with beauty than his predecessor—, whose only objective has been the materialization of the most exquisite longings of human minds.
It must be difficult to show your true identity while living behind a pair of unheard-of breasts, locked in an irreparably sicaliptic body; and this does not mean that, on many occasions, this fact is not advantageous, but rather it means living under a prejudice, defeated by one's own physical beauty, which generates fans and enemies, and fans who may behave like enemies, and enemies who may behave like villains. The combination of prodigious beauties (anatomical and mental) is a dangerous elixir for whoever possesses it and for those who encounter its bearer.
I think Ganasdemorir belongs to that reduced group of people who, with their mere presence, are capable of perverting everything, even infecting the most tranquil minds with the worst kind of disease, without even intending to; I can imagine them sliding through the crowd, with a face indifferent or disgusted or perhaps satisfied, and after them leaves a corrupting trail, imperceptible, infectious.
It's complicated for me to accurately describe this girl (and I'd like to avoid common clichés, since it's not my intention to emphasize the obvious). My vision regarding Ganasdemorir is quite limited; nonetheless, I'll try to define her profile as best I can. She's a character taken from a Raymond Chandler fiction, a 'femme fatale' in potential, a silent hedonist who looks at herself and others' eyes with a narcissistic hint, a voyeur of herself, sometimes caught up in a struggle to overcome (or equal) her carnal gifts with her intelligence, but finds the wall almost insurmountable, and smiles and suffers for the same reason.
She could be all good and all bad, she could be the precursor to an obsession, a kaleidoscope of virtues and vices that intertwine and don't allow you to guess the borders.
I confess that, in an unsuccessful attempt to complete the rest of the frame —the missing elements of this Exodia—, I have searched for it, vaguely, in the entrails of all video chat pages I've been able to; I've waited for each of its updates; I've tried to read between the lines its words, photo headings written with its impeccable orthography, cynical comments and responses, and analyzed —trying to escape its magnetism— the objects that accompany the background of its images. And now I write what I have. I discover nothing or very little.
Sometimes I asked Ganasdemorir why he had chosen that name. Because he blew my wad and I'm like this, no more.It was her response. It would have been easier to call herself TetasExtraterrestres or Solita27 or NiñaCastigada or OgtRosa. But no. She decided to call herself LaLloronaWays to DelayIn her, an apparent tragic element lurks derived from intimate experiences that only allow imprecise conjectures; and she complains about her 'existential monotony', and complains about going to class and occasional activities; and then, calmed down, returns, and requests musical recommendations or Netflix suggestions, or suggests a small 'roleplay'.
Now I know, however, that the urges to die are not only hers, but mine, ours, of all those who started following her, absolutely captivated, and little by little we have arrived at the conclusion that she is on the other side of the crystal, unreachable, in another dimension, more and more haunted by the implausibility of her miraculous composition.
And after all this useless paraphernalia, what I have left to say to Ganasdemorir (if it happens to read this) is that, please, continue leaving those small clues - although not too many, to keep the mystery - and it would be nice to read more, dare to intercalate her obvious thanks with her subtle ones.
From the periphery, with love until your Argentinized Madagascar.
30 comentários - Open Letter for Delayed Gratification
Comparto sus morfológicas quirúrgicas dietéticas...
De nada 😎
Paso @ si me lo piden