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Sep. 21st, 2003

Today on the train I watched an ugly woman who did not know that she was ugly.

She was not ugly because of her age, which by itself is irrelevant to attractiveness, or the wrinkled loose folds of skin on her neck. She was not ugly because of her colourless eyes, or her blonde hair, both of which are purely arbitrary.

She had a good figure and carefully chosen, beautifully fitting clothes. Her jewellery spoke of a good eye for style and fashion. Her skin had a pretty tan.

Yet the woman was ugly to me because she had the look of a dried rose, frozen in time to achieve the look of youthfulness and conveying only stagnation.

THere was no vitality to the woman. Her face was placid, her body showed little but her energy was eloquent. The woman had been mired in illusion for a long time and had forgotten that silence speaks.

The woman had not always been joyless and dry. At one point she had laughed easily and glowed with health and sun. THe woman had met her husband on a beach many years before and had swayed him with her long limbs and flashing white teeth, with the way she had of throwing looks over her shoulder. Nowadays the woman no longer laughs. She and her husband rarely speak and rarely touch. She has no joy in his presence. She suspects he is having an affair.

She takes no joy in her two children, and shows only a surface interest in their appearance and progress at school.

Her house does not bring her satisfaction either, though it is tasteful and immaculate. The woman has lost her essence but she keeps up the illusion of her image meticulously.

The woman is ugly because of her sagging breasts withered in on themselves. They no longer provide nourishment or pleasure, they do not nurture children or yield and tingle and swell to the touch of a lover. She is ugly because of her sharp jutting hipbones and the clearly defined bones of her chest. She is ugly because her body speaks of joylessness and deprivation, of entrapment with appearances. She is all angles and sharp lines, aloof and unwelcoming. Hostile. Tall cliffs and broken crags.
Her breasts speak of barreness and icy cold, because it had been a long time since the woman had smiled spontaneously, impulsively and even longer since she had laughed in bosomshaking delight.

The woman was ugly because she was lifeless, dessicated, because pretty and fashionable as her exterior was it wasn't genuine. SHe was ugly because it had been years since she'd noticed sunrise, or stroekd the hair of her child, or desired her husband. She was ugly because she had no passion and no substance.

She had no vitality no joy. She is mummified.
Stagnation and decay trailed her like a shadow but she never noticed because she had stopped questoning, stopped looking beneath the surface of things.
Her aura was citrine, olive green and muddy brown tarnished and disconnected.

The woman is ugly because she is withered.


( 3 comments — Leave a comment )
Sep. 24th, 2003 09:06 am (UTC)

Sep. 25th, 2003 11:12 am (UTC)
thanks :)
Sep. 25th, 2003 11:25 am (UTC)
yea, man

( 3 comments — Leave a comment )


deep sky, firefly

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