Wearing a lavender wife-beater and white tight-but-loose pants makes me feel like a girl. When I look in the mirror at the hot body that just grows naturally, no matter what I feel inside, I feel a combination of admiration and horror. I feel angry and overwhelmed by the beauty that is mine, that I cannot control. It stands out, asks to be touched and grabbed. It is independent. It is something separate and fleeting and sad.
It is not me.
And yet, for a moment, it was. When I knew love and passion again with a physically beautiful person who owned their own attractiveness as little as I own mine. And now they’re gone, and I’m a girl dressed in lavender pastel, alone again.
Why bother? Why be amiable and attractive, lean and lithe? It has gotten me nowhere other than a computer-full of stories. It is empty and shallow, just like the city I’ve made my life in.
I love it and hate it. loathe it and fear it. need it and feed off it.
Life is but an ongoing addiction of one fix after another, all in a pursuit of an ultimate high that can only be resolved, in one fleeting moment, at death. When one realizes that it was all pointless, and it would have been more fulfilling to believe in a heaven and hell anyway. That’s where religion originated. Out of a need to learn the definition to an unknown word.
There is nothing to live for but the moment, and an ever-elusive future that promises a better something.
I will get there someday. In my dreams, if nowhere else.