In the absent books of writhe

The un-chronicling of naughty

“You’re a naughty boy”, that’s something I had heard many times from when I was a boy and even so now that I am someone’s lover boy. With that comes the threat of something one might or might not enjoy, but that is left to be seen and felt.

Apparently, there is a journal, a mythical black book with fictional ideas of what a naughty boy has done, written in invisible ink, one would suppose because evidence of all that is as scant as watching the divinations of a shaman, for only they can see whatever they see and interpret what is not within the purview of the supplicant.

It could be put down to the usual banter the jousting between a black book with blank pages, then again; if the pages were black, what is written therein might not be seen but for the sake of highly fluorescent ink against the fact that the evident notepad with a pen always within reach and the propensity to tap away at a keyboard to produce a blog.

Maybe it is not a contest, just a whimsical notion of readiness and lethargy, no winners to celebrate, just that naughty is all part of a spectacle, present with many and left to fester by some. Then, rather than call someone else a naughty boy, history came crashing in with an excellently deployed putdown, along the lines of before your cheeky face appeared. That should leave some chuckling with a naughty giggle.