I like the looks I get because without them I won’t be the same. However I hate the feeling within because it makes me a spectacle of despair. I believe that I can be debonair at times but truly would love to be like everyone else so that I can mingle in the crowds, unseen and not heard. Perhaps it is naïve to think this way, as there is a price to pay when I’m walked over and passed by, despite my best efforts. What has been evident for some time now is that I am a hostage of my making for it is a tough job maintaining these looks. On the other hand what else can I do if this is all I know of who I am. In the mirror I am perfection with a razzmatazz following of victims that dance in the tail of my whirlwind. Little do they know that I am the victim of their wisdom if they turn their attention elsewhere.
Hello, my name is Beauty and I am trapped in mankind. My life began in roses and in their sheer fragrance of the summer light did I witness my inception. I evolved into landscapes, hills, valleys and mountains, traveling through galaxies as a spectrum of light reflected from the numerous stars at my disposal. Men once hailed me as the yellow evening light of the setting sun that disappeared slowly in the distant ocean. During these times I was more than just a vision, I was a feeling, a breath of fresh air that brought comfort, jubilation, and irrationality at my presence. It came as no surprise to me then that I made the best of friends as I entertained and gave hope and faith to many. I swamped hallways with music and the essence of life escaping to the furthest corners of the earth as I sought those who never knew I existed. Eventually time caught up with me and I was infested.
Today I am ashamed to say that I have become the obstacle that lies within the shades of darkness in the thoughts of men. I am the spectacle that is laughed at when all that is seen of me is the dead shell of an empty vessel without a home to lay my head at. Even my alliances are now cut short as I lie breathless in folly disowned by the brethren that once looked up to me. I once was a joy and friend to many and now I am trapped and used as an excuse for vanity. Atavism is my hope as I wish for my old days and the times when I once was free.
A very good friend once complained to me that wherever she went people stared at her. She said she did not mind this as long as they could see there was more to her than met the eye. I told her that she couldn’t have it both ways. Those who did not get the attention had to have something else to hang on to. Two days later she changed her appearance by dressing down than she was accustomed to, to see what would happen. Naturally she didn’t get as much attention as she’d normally get but felt she was taken more seriously. She told me later that what she had discovered about herself was that now she had the choice to be whoever she wanted to be…