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Fixture in the Painting

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The strange thing about being loved by someone is that you begin to love yourself. It is almost sad because now that someone loves you, you see that you are worthy to be loved, that you are beautiful, like the sun in her glory, shining light on every man, exposing everything about him. You feel beautiful, like a flower growing in a garden of many, its roots holding firmly to the ground and not willing to let go. Like that flower that sprouts and reveals her true self to the rest of the bloom who are not quite as beautiful as her; Blossoming in her beauty, all looking with jealousy and awe. It is only when a man says you are beautiful that you can be loved; that you believe in love; that you are able to define love in your own words. I want to love somebody and I want somebody to love me; somebody to hold me and somebody to hold; somebody to care and somebody to care for. I want somebody to be passionate about and somebody to be passionate about me. Why is it so hard to find love? When is it going to be my turn to find the right person who will join with me so that we might become one? How can I be beautiful if I have no one to love? I am not beautiful until I have a man who tells me that I am beautiful! I want to be beautiful! I want to blossom! I want to be looked at in awe and jealousy! I want to be what others cannot have! I want to be worth fighting for! I want to be pursued; I want someone to love me!

Every day I wake up to ugliness. To the very thing that despises beauty for what she is! The world is not an ugly place, but I am. Sin is ugly, but not as ugly as me. Even death in her grey self roams with elegance that is beautiful. She takes life for herself. She touches the body with a kiss, a passionate kiss and liberates beautiful life from ugliness. Her gift is undone, freedom given, do you not see the beauty? I hate myself, I hate myself, I really hate myself because I cannot be loved. There are so many things that are out of place on my body.

My fingers are crooked, my legs are bent, my face is infested with dirt and blemishes, my lips are too big my ears are too curved in my nose is way out of line and my voice is not pleasant to the ear my breasts are too big and yet sometimes it as if they are not even there, I have no backside to be drooled over and yet sometimes it feels as if I have too much of it! I have nothing striking to say. I am the walking corpse. I am not stupid, no one could ever love what is not worthy of love.



So why despair? If I am ugly and no one can love what is ugly, why despair? I must find contentment in this revolting state. I will look at everything with hate. All that is beautiful, I will turn to stone. All that is ugly is mine, we belong to one another. Ugliness has married me, robbed me of my decision. He stole my soul, he ensnared and captured me, and I belong to him. When I wake up in the morning he is with me. When I walk in the presence of others he guards me, keeps me from interacting with them, tells me to walk with my head down, not to make eye contact, to hide my face. He tells me to cover my face because it is too ugly to be exposed. And so I listen to him. He is master over me, and so I listen to him. I cover my face with my hair leaving only enough space for vision and breath. I walk with my head down; the ground is all I know. I stay silent and only speak when my master speaks to me. I am obedient to the one who is called ugly. Why do I listen? Because no one will hear me, because he has become a part of me, he has chosen to unite himself with me; at least he is not afraid to be by me. I must

listen to ugly. He is the only one I have known, my one

true friend. I must be loyal and so I give myself to him. What else is there for me? I have no one, I have nothing. I am tired, I am burdened by mine own self.

- - I have tried to be happy with Ugliness, living a life of pretense and anguish. I cannot do it anymore. I did not want to marry Ugly; I do not even remember where he came from or how we met. Enough of this! I was made and I was born. I was a babe, a beautiful babe and forever I shall be. I am a fixture in a painting whose artist is an undying poet. I do not move unless I am moved, even if I want to I cannot escape my frame. His painting is full of movement though He is still. He took time to create me, made me perfect. He gave me a precious jewel, a rare one, only one of its kind. Pure and clean, shining and white, crystal in sight I carried it with me everywhere I went. He loved me so much but I took advantage of that love. I did not want that sort; I wanted to be touched, I needed to feel, I needed to get out of my frame, I needed to be alive.



How could I do this when I can only move when the Poet moves me? How can I feel when I cannot move? I think to myself: I must somehow get the artist to hand me His brush that I may complete the master piece; impossible. Then it all clicks! A reflection, I see a reflection. The crystal jewel I am given imposes a Reflection. It is clear and clean, with form and name, good in nature, unlike a shadow. The Reflection, I see the Reflection. It's gleaming in glory so perfect and holy, it's the Reflection! I am the Reflection! Tears and pain, sorrow and joy, I am the Reflection. I am not a fixture; I am part of the moving frame. I am not what he says I am, I am not his slave. I have eyes, beautiful eyes, let the whole world see. I can move my legs, I can lift my hands, I let the wind catch my hair, the two collide, let contentment give birth to bliss.



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