There's this aching, like numbness, which seeps down through my chest and infuses every cell with its calling. One after another after another they succumb to the purple sickness, suffering after a beauty but never earning a satisfaction. "A thing of beauty is a joy forever," some poor poet once said, but how did he not see that beauty isn't joy but a torture device which makes suffering into an art? Its effervescence makes the bile in your stomach boil and blub until it's rising up your throat and you find it all over your shoes. Its song screeches in your ears and threatens to make them bleed.
Oh, but it's so difficult to let go. Because even as its claws retract from your chest and it starts to float away, you're clutching after it like you're trying to grab the wind - a desperate and fruitless attempt. Because it's beauty, it's her, and though you hate yourself for it, you love the suffering because it reminds you that you're real.
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