A little evil.

December 8th, 2014



Nearly every child has a favourite fairy tale, a character they are drawn to, sometimes out of admiration and other times in fear. Although I positively adored Cinderella, relished in her beautiful melodies and innocent heart, I could not deny my attraction to a rather scary, wicked creature known as Maleficent.

While others dreamed of being Princess Aurora, of dancing through forests and rescued by Prince Phillip; I fantasized about adorning deep crimson lip paint all while feeling the weight of a thick, black shiny cape.

There was something provocatively sinister about this statuesque figure and although she appeared in human form I was not surprised, even as a child, when she transformed into the beastly dragon. In my deviant, child like mind I had always suspected her distorted beauty was due to the fact that she was never a person, she merely took that shape in order to manipulate those she wished to convert.

Maleficent was not ugly nor was she beautiful. Her face was exaggerated in harsh, unforgiving angles and her eyes large yet menacing like a cat. She was tall and lean and her hands although graceful resembled claws more than fingers. Everything about her had an air of sultry femininity. However, if you listened carefully, if you watched as she slithered down staircases and across hallowed halls you would see she was no more a woman than the devil himself.

An evil yet oddly charming entity, I was not the only one drawn to her charismatic ways. Still as certain as I was that she would do harm to Aurora I could not help but smile whenever she appeared on the screen. Something about her resonated within me and it was only years later that I understand the connection.

For as long as I can remember I have felt at odds with myself. Although outwardly I portrayed that of a girl who was polite, demure, sweet and most assuredly innocent, deep within my core there has always lingered something darker, something wickedly perverse. My exterior of pink sundresses, softly curled locks and freckle peppered skin was a mask for the something far more deviant. This is not to say that I do not enjoy pink and the feminine whimsy it brings; however, that is not the bulk of who I am. On the contrary. In truth my core is riddled with menace and depravity and it is only now that I am welcoming this part of who I am.

Evil lurks in many shadows, even ones filtered by the sun.


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November 24th, 2014

I can not remember the last time I visited this journal. I could look at the last entry; however, the actual date is of no significance to me.  What does matter is that I miss having a space I can share my thoughts without the fear of someone I know reading them. When I first started this journal I thought no one read my ramblings and then when I received my first comment I had a moment of panic thinking someone was actually paying attention to what I was exposing. Over time I have met the faces of many individuals who have frequented my pages  and although I am happy to have made new friends I can not deny a sense of loss in knowing I am no longer anonymous.

Journalling has been a part of my life since I was five years old. My first diary was a small square pocket book with a fake gold lock and two teddy bears hugging on the front cover. If I close my eyes I can still feel the puffy texture of the cushioned binding. How I adored sharing my secrets on those tiny pages. Throughout my adolescence I filled hundreds of pages in numerous books and although I kept them neatly lined upon my nightstand never once did I fear someone would read them. I was blessed to have a family that respected privacy and although each family member could, at any moment, read all I wrote, they never did. My emotions, my experiences, my doubts and insecurities were just that, mine and I took great comfort in knowing I had an outlet.

This space was once an outlet. Unfortunately now I just feel vulnerable. I have numerous thoughts I wish to share and yet I hold back because the eyes that scan these pages are ones that will eventually see my reflection. It is not easy being exposed, naked to the public world and although I am only seen by a teeny tiny part it still feels like a violation. I wish I was anonymous, like in the beginning. I could disclose everything then and do so without worry, without the concern that someone would know a part of me that I worked so hard in keeping a secret. I am a private person and now I feel as though I am standing in the middle of a crowded street buck naked with every thought written upon my flesh.

I have missed this place of mine but I am uncertain if I can ever really return.


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