The Beauty in Something so Untrue...
I wish I could say that I have a passion, that I have desires, that I have an addiction, but I can’t. I wish just once I could say that I was driven and wanted something, barring of course my physical wants for sustenance and sexual gratification. I wish that I felt like the others of my gender, of my generation, of my existence, but I don’t. even as I write this I know it’s a lie to say I wish because I don’t. I don’t wish, I don’t hope, and I don’t even care.
Outwardly I seem to be full of that which I lack the most, the calling card if you will of my existence, and especially my gender. You should see how well I can make the saline pour down my face when it suits me. I sometimes think as the false saline runs down my face that what I should be crying over are all the little lies trickling down my callous but somehow soft cheeks. I wonder if my truth is visible, but I know it’s not. Fortunately for me I was given a soft, malleable, attractive even exterior so my lies are more than just believable, to most people they’re all I am. The Sweet Saline Stained face of a liar.
The Beauty in something so untrue. Like the paintings of all artist and the sonnets of all poets, sweet, beautiful, passionate, emotional lies. These liars given too much credit to a talent such as painting and sculpting, singing and writing, all so regrettably mimic able. and with such external mediums. but to lie without a canvas, without clay, without paper or an instrument takes skill. The soul of an artist dies and whats left are his sculpted mediums and someones interpretation, everlasting but emotionless... But the soul of a liar dies and the pain and heartache lives on in everyone she met.
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