Looking for stories of pious Gods and prose of love in the crevasse of earth’s divinity, she looked to soft and tender touches of the first snow. Yet, the winter leaves her wooden and cold. Rescinded back in the arms of mercy, she escapes into monotony once more. A heart that soured with the regal and restless snowflakes which tonight, drift over the universe to find nothing but traces of a grace that aged like fine wine.
I’ve never met a soul like hers. Eloquence praised her curiosity in warmth like a masterpiece yet to be revealed. She knew better than to argue – perhaps the work of a thousand healed cuts which She’s spent three years licking like a wounded animal in recluse, with the warmth and care of a mother she never knew. She commanded the attention of the room, like Gustav Klimt’s Famous Kiss Seen Around the World, nestled in the Albertina right in the heart of Vienna’s 9th city district. She never looked to destiny as salvation – with the exception of love. Not in the form of a soul mate, but a manifestation of something characteristically intrinsic and reflective. Confined to her inability to seek, still yet, she’d never been sought.
Her days seemed passe with a charming sort of tranquil antiquity not often found in the breadth of a modern woman – a strange fascination with bugs with too many legs and eyes, traveling by foot, essenced white teas, with an admiration for tidiness which most likely stems from a harsh chore-heavy household. She never took too kindly to unsightly men who often tried to swoon her with cliched one-liners. If they happened to land well, she’d consider but nothing more. She took to life’s simple sensory pleasures as her finest form of escapism and radiance: sticking her hand in sacks of dried beans at her hometown supermarket, peeling the skin of a grape with her front teeth, feeling the innocent tickles of her lover’s bearded face as she grazes her lips across his gentle jaw, or falling asleep to the sound of her carbonated water on her nightstand.
The curse of She is that She looked for beauty. A beauty which spoke, pacified, and forgave. She in turn, also forgives as an ultimate act of submission – to the divinity of others and the sounds of beautiful exchanges of naivety and bewilderment.
She often wondered of her curious mind; what it would become of her to take a desk job, what her life would be like if she was born in Japan, or if she were to date an electrician. There was a depth that’s been explored, but it's trenches and foliage remained tethered and enveloping. Mistakes seemed less like lessons and more like variations, precisely because mistakes that seem different are, in essence, all the same. She once prayed to a God, but now she doesn't want to burden. She’s loved all her life, leaving not a fragment of time to deplete in a single passing moment. Like I’ve loved all of my life, I knew it forbade an element of scarcity. The scarcity of essence, or at best, a wrong impression. She was tethered to the misguidance and pleasures of life often plagued with thorns that look delicate to the touch.
She’s never forgotten her ability to sacrifice – in those little, petty, and often unsexy ways that life often requires. It bred in her a rare, divinely feminine and forgiving aura as a modern-day Venus. She’d make an excellent wife simply because she wants to be one. She often escapes to daydreams filled with domestic life. No pomp or elegance, just raw, and beautifully ordinary.
She often fears the passing of time. Teenagers are calling her ma’am, and suddenly there’s a newfound and orgasmic-like excitement at the thought of receiving a vacuum cleaner for Christmas. She’s not a victim of time, but a mere depiction of its inevitability and lucidity. Something that’s so concrete and fleeting that She often finds herself succumbing to it’s ear-popping pressure.
Yet, winter’s stillness ensues a reign of the stoic and regal She. A desperation for more despite the charge of reluctance. It’s a fear that reigns from past, absences, and loss that peers it’s head on the trudge to forward movement. Neither does she live nor exist for the sotto of winter, she lives for the hope of a summer too bright to ever let be dimmed.
