Monday, March 26, 2012

Wanton Prose #1: She

Note: A long time ago, spurred along by a friend of mine, I tweeted a few statements starting by the word "She". They were supposedly directed towards a woman, an entity who might (or might not) exist,  attempting to encompass what she was to the writer. It was a fun endeavor, one that I undertook several times afterwards, and so I decided to see what would happen if I attempted it upon this platform instead; wanton prose in essence, directed at the mysterious yet omnipresent She.


You look into her eyes and you see everything; your own self, reflected in the ever-flattering mirror that is her beautiful soul. Those orbs of vision, they always comfort you, telling you that you're not so bad at all. The whites of her eyes, crisscrossed with rivulets of red, a reminder of the purity you once had but misplaced. She tells you that it's still there, buried beneath the years of disillusionment, pain and disappointment. Her irises, much like everything about her, are in constant flux. They change and vary; to you, they are the pure azure of the brilliant pristine sea, the delicious waxy hazel that always reminds you of the honey you effortlessly consumed as a child, the sun-touched green that brings upon the odor of freshly watered fields, right after a much-awaited rainfall, the soft grey that reminds you of that one day you spent amongst the mountains and hills, swallowed in indomitable fog, and even the black, inscrutable and forbidding, vying for supremacy against her obsidian tresses.

You cannot look into those eyes, and not be raptly attentive to everything she has to say. Even if her lips say nothing, she speaks to you with her very existence; a glance that beckons you forward, a spurious dimple and a crinkle at the corner of her eyes that arise when you try to be clever, a slightly  knuckled forehead when she's focusing. All those things, you see, and love, and learn to never live without. It is a conference of minds, a melding of souls and beings. It is the perfect chemical reaction, brought along by chance or fate, one whose constituents are forever one.

She is the island in the ocean, the one you've always seen from afar and never knew why it always seemed so distant, even though it's only a swim away. She is that curious rock you picked up when you were a child, marveling at its existence, wondering how such a perfect being came to life, forged in the furnaces of creation. She is that intricate kite you've seen flying in the soft summer breeze, weaving to and fro, almost enticing you to join it in flight. She is the curious phosphenes in your eyes, brilliant and colorful, and always destined to fade in time. She is that light droplet of rain that taps your forehead on a sunny day, making you wonder if you've gone mad, or whether you were just simply really lucky. She is the song that sends shivers down your spine, and yet you feel like your chest's on fire.

And yet, when you try to describe how you feel about her, you find that it transcends things such as love, adoration or desire. Words like 'gorgeous' or 'beautiful' feel ordinary and mundane. You scour the depths of your mind, formulating the perfect description, the right sentence.

...and you can only say.. "She is.", because you realize in the end, that full awareness of her existence - in all its glory - is the truest compliment there could ever be.



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