v u l v a l i c i o u s
And what, exactly, does it mean to wear pink?
I am all pretty things.
Today I am wearing pink as if my life depended on it. With orange underneath, I am a walking cacophony of color. And color is sound, isn't it? It must be.
But I am looking at the beautiful people that are swirling around me in this prettypeople wasteland and growing more and more irked. Why, I ask, are they so beautiful? Why do they seem to scream out perfection even on cold mornings when they have simply rolled out of bed, pajama-clad, and stumbled into my world, the world of books and thought?
And is this their world too?
Do they wake up in the morning and decide to wear pink to unleash their inner ferocity? Do they even wear pink here?
It would seem that red is the color of the world; it would seem that they bleed black and navy blue (the color of bruises) but wear crimson on their person (the color of blood).
Is this not a walking contradiction? And should I not embrace it?
I should. I should.
In the land of confusion, there is the Cunt, which marks all pathways. The great convergence of art and love, of magic and perceived truth. This shall I embrace, as she embraces me.