She. Always thoughts of her, man. I distract myself, always, with the faults I find in others. Perhaps the percentage of the human race that I detest is driven to its puddle of filth, wallows in the mud of sin, just to forget. To keep things pure within their minds by dirtying the world they live in.
They. They smile. Their grin. Her grin. Pulling her muscles so the lips cover her teeth when she wants to laugh. She tightens her lips, pushing them together, turning that perfect curve into a smooth V. Her cheeks pull back, round and beautiful. Her eyes. Unblinking. Staring. Her grin.
They desecrate that face, mimicking it at every chance. She uses that smile. So do they. So do I. They destroy something so insignificant to others, so monumental to me, with their agendas and perversions hidden within those husks of meat and makeup. I ruin it as, well. I disgust myself, the way they disgust me when they remind me of her. I forget all of that, and I hate myself for it. I hate myself for forgetting that I could ruin her, the way they ruin her smile. The perfect spot on the canvas. The drop that lands, stretching out, staying put, spreading varying shades of that same perfect color, so obvious against that tiny blank spot, surrounded by an unorganized, chaotic mass of dulls and brights… the entire piece, the entire world of women, is a frame for that perfect smile of hers, the spot of paint that only forces of nature could condition.
I adore women. Most of them disgust me. I love her, and I don’t think I even know why. Maybe I do. Who cares? Do I? Does she? Probably not. Who am I to say? Who am I not to say? Is it anyone’s place to or to not speak? Only God knows.
I’m sorry. Only delusions induced by mass-paranoid-schizophrenia know. Manifestations of the mind. My mind. Her mind. Your mind. We all know. So why play the charade? Why even ask, knowing that the answer will not be delivered?
The subconscious works in mysterious ways.
