It was today that I really took into account the grace and sleekness of the female body. The slope of the neck as it meets at the shoulders, the scooping indentations of collar-bones, the soft skin and gentle disposition.
It is all these things, and more of course, that make a woman attractive. It’s the full culmination of these very things, in fact, that make them purely irresistible.
Its as though they know all, and in their own mind keep all the secrets of the world that are just aching to be spilt, but are never for fear the world will be spoilt upon hearing them. Every woman may carry these very secrets, but not know how to listen to or how to speak them; No one really knows how to listen anymore. I feel though as if they did things would at once be all too clear, too simple and not nearly as satisfactory.
If you look deep into a woman’s soul, past the sloping, graceful neck and back, the flowing arches and smoothness of her outer appearance, there lies beneath a secret which no one shall ever know. No woman herself knows her own secret until she must be made to know it, to face the unfacable and endure the unthinkable, and in that moment of greatest suffering, she will emerge all the stronger, but perhaps less graceful, less smooth, sleek, but more wise.
And it is in this moment, that she will know all.
And it is in this moment that she will be the most beautiful.
And it will be in this moment that she will be untouchable.
Tonight, the heavens parted, and rain fell from the sky as though the world had longed for it, and the earth lapped it up, its surface grown dry with drought.
I sat inside, looking out the open window that somehow never lets the rain in and I felt the need to run outside and sit in what was left of the cool summer shower; to find purity in the same sort of manner that the earth may find it as well.
For the first time, I wish I smoked cigarettes or cloves or small cigars or possibly even something more exotic like opium, which would give me just cause to be outside. It has been so terribly long since I’ve weathered a summer shower just for the sheer point of it; to lay vulnerable and bear your soul up for judgment to the very essence of its being. To give yourself entirely to natures will.
This is the power of the rain.
And this is the power that I long for at this current time.
I can’t name the flood of emotions that have been coming and going recently. All I know is that I do not understand them, and I can not predict them. I know they are strong and they are true; more true that I’ve ever known anything to be. My heart is so full that it aches for some sort of relieve that I can not provide. I know no prescription to help me in my quest, and have since stopped searching for anything materialistic and instead just wait to see what will happen.
I’m not sure what my heart is full of. Desire for validation? Is this complete understanding? Is this acceptance? Is this settling? Is this happiness?
A thousand and one questions run through my head at any given time and I can’t decipher a single one. I believe I do not know how to listen. I strain and all I hear is sweet melodies, beats and rain. Its too early for cars or birds and too late for the noise of vagrants and party-goers. There are no prostitutes or dealers out tonight; the rain has kept them at bay, and the drunken neighbors along with them.
It seems oddly quiet, the hours after the rain. It’s the time when the earth is basking in being full, in being happy and being clean for one single moment. She is happy and tired and needs a rest.
The sky is pink with the tint of the city and a mixture with the early morning lights. The sky still bears the signs of storms though the mess has passed for the most part. The remnants of the passing squall leave its marks all over. Cars will drip water down the road long into the afternoon, and puddles will make my sandals slippery throughout the whole of tomorrow and possibly until the next day as well.
The summer sun has lost its radiance now in the latter parts of august. It doesn’t shine like it used to. It will not burn off this rain with the early morning light and heat. It has grown tired and needs to rest, and longs to spend sometime with its brother winter somewhere below the horizon in a place where only mortals can imagine. We have never been there and we never shall go there, for it is too good a place for us. We won’t understand it, or appreciate it, and there is no need for things that are not appreciated. Then they are a waste.
The street lights glow a dull orange red, and the whole city seems alight in tints of red and orange. The houses are made of dull reds and browns mixed with the pinks in the sky and the orange mist of the rain and street lamps. Its an eerie sort of sight that is incomparable to anything else in the world.
The city at night is beautiful.
You can’t see the stars, but the city makes up for what it has lost by making its own stars and constilations from buildings and streets. Flashing lights and traffic jams are shooting stars, the planets rotate earnestly about the block from place to place, always passing the same course steadily looking for a place to rest, but finding none appropriate, continue their course.
It is a strange thing to find yourself in one place in the morning and in another at night. To be in a city in the day and in space at night. At night the city is a dark and sometimes foreign place with frightening situations and people who call out to you, but through their own desperation the honest have faltered and become poor and it is the honest that they blame, exploit and envy.
The city is treacherous.
It lies in wait for your false and unsure steps to lead you astray. It is uncaring and evil and manipulative to those who are not watching. It can embrace you in such a way that you feel smothered by it and can not stay for fear of suffocation. It is the land of opportunity and new ideas and new interests. It’s a new land, a new world and a new hope.
At night,
i think,
the city to be beautiful.
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