Concerning my disease being shed. This is not entirely true, you see the disease, though disguised, is ever present. The disease is not any specific substance in which I could ingest, rather a weakness in myself that hinders me from continuing on in the world with contentness at the very least. I wish very much I knew an antidote for this. Oh what a clever solution that would be!
From the preverse thighs that were once used in more athletic and intellectual pursuits, games like Volleyball and dancing, there is now a desire. Like a desires, it consumes her, becomes her, erases from his grion up every innocent beauty that was the girls own. Oh how lovely she was, how boundless, delightfully like a blank canvas. When her picture began there were bright colors, dashes of pink and carribean brush strokes that would create tiny fairy wings lifting her into the heavens, exposing her beautiful and poetic spirit into the air. A lovely angel descending on all of us, crying tears of happiness and at once sadness for every lack of compassion in the wretched world below her. And it was below her, for we were all insignificant under her feet. Insignificant to what she could have been.
Note all the distractions, note love, note every problem that destroys and corrupts her lovely legs. Note them, and realize that it is not the fault of distraction and love, but of desire. Desire for beauty,giving her sensitivity to his pain. Desire for love, that gave their relationship importance. Desire for significance in her meaningless life to defend the love that she sacrificed her developing art. She would have been a masterpiece. For now her canvas is ugly. In time, we all hope, it will evolve and be more perfect than one could imagine. This perfection is a hope. This perfection, though flawed is only a masterpiece from it's temporary deformity.
The other lady occupies her time with life. She tends to those she loves when she can, appreciating greatly every second of sincere affection.
The boy, poor fellow, is alone now, confined inside his own head, left to clean the scattered pieces of his broken heart. Words could not describe the depth of the pain that he feels. We all watch him and hope that his pain will evolve into a healthy bode of inspiration. The lady and the one with notable thighs, and I with my disease try to help him with the pain. But we are poor with a broom, we have no skill to walk the length of the halls, sweeping and sweeping. Collecting particles of dust that in previous months would reside on his dear lover. Now he sits, upon sitting he waits. Whathe waits for he only has vague ideas. They tell him in time he'll feel better, they tell him this is an oppurtunity to express his own desires. He doesn't know where to begin, so for now he sits, he waits.