People always seem to be so obsessed with beauty–with physical perfection. The Adonis and the Aphrodite; the essence to possess a kind of je ne sais quois and I wonder if this is what it is like to exist: to constantly be searching for vanity at a level that is considered human but parallels narcissism.
I will never be traditionally pretty and it’s always terrified me but I never really understood why–half in part because I never thought the meaning mattered, and half in part because I enjoyed the idealism.
But this I’ve known: in our own lives we have all defined our core with our own truths, our own guidelines. Sometimes they’re created from happiness and the moments of our life that were sheltered by euphoria and handled by epiphanies. Most of the time, they’re created from those days we can’t force ourselves alive but somehow we’re still living.
When you are four and five and six the psychology books tell you that this is the point in your psychological development where you slowly start to become self-aware. When you are four and five and six the psychology books don’t tell you that this is also the point in your psychological development where you slowly start to learn how to hate every part of the skin you are in.
And at eight and nine and ten I promised myself if I could not be pretty I would be smart: and this was my first truth–built on the idea that if my genetics have failed me my logic would not. I would focus on aspects I could control, on things that I would make matter–that my life would not be dictated by some luck of chromosomes and societal ideals.
There is no inherent biological need for a 24 inch waist or slender arms. There is no inherent biological need for dainty features and doll-eyes. There is no longer an inherent biological need to be beautiful. But the funny thing is, the psychology books also tell you that systematic desensitization is harder than classical conditioning; that logic will often lose in matters of the heart–and the funny thing is that my first truth was built on my first lie–and this is all window dressing for shattered panes.
I’m old enough to understand the why. I’m well-read enough to understand the how.
But somehow even after all the bullshit–I’m still not intelligent enough to stop caring about the why not.