blood_red_sharpie_sou_style once again The myth of the soul. The truth of self. Who is to say what is you if you cannot say yourself? Is there one vital essence, one exclusive, all-encompassing, absolute notion of self? To be true you must simply hold yourself unchangingly, thoughtlessly to a single conception of who you really are. The soul comes through in every action, every desire, every belief that you hold. A single raison d’etre. And it is there, reflected for all the world to see, in that first innocent glance. And she saw honesty and melancholy, and hope. And over the years her impression of him will change. He will be by turns angry, and careless and beautiful and precious. Yet she always recalls the moment she let her eyes rise from the cotton expanse of his shirt to the naked truth of his face. She remembers how he looked in that moment and when she thinks of him. It is not as a person, but the embodiment of these ideals. And when his eyes lowered past that tangle of multi – hued strands he saw in her face wonder and happiness, and cynicism. Since that first collision he has watched her be miserable, and selfish. He has seen her as jaded and optimistic, yet in flashes of memory. When she twists into being as a product of imagination, it is not her body he sees, but the way she is inside. Nothing says so much about who we really are as what we see in others faces. And they found in each other a compliment, a buffer, an edge to stand upon. It becomes obvious that hope and cynicism should be good friends, and that honesty and wonder should be at such odds. In their melancholy joy they have found bliss. Which is neither happiness nor misery, but a calmness of soul. 041006 what's it to you? who go blather from