artchick

When you stare at your own face long enough, it becomes a series of abstract shapes, disjointed from meaning.

Hard to discern what shapes do and don't fit under the definition of beauty, and how those overlapping abstractions hold up to that shifting, slippery word.

My body betrays me, the skin stretching, the limbs awkward, and my spirit withers under the weight of its betrayal. I've noticed since my hair has turned it's blue-green-indigo shade, almost no one looks at me anymore as I pass them on the street, and then usually in disdain. I would expect people to be wary of my too-bright head, but not for people to stop finding me attractive altogether. I feel oddly displaced.

I am fasting, now. Still tired, and feeling broke down from toeing the line between too many worlds. I am cocooning myself in sleep, and dreams, and solitude.