She has encumbered her mind with the sadness of regret. What of her memory? It is drowned in a scathing of her liquid mind; a woman of vanity that conflicts with a desire for a future. Her independence is doomed to meet the past; what of her memory? The memory she possesses, Valarie, as is her name, sees shadows.
Shadows that creep and shadows that are so much the silhouette. She desires to see the future, away from a husband, though is seeing the past. She pulls humanity backwards. Disparity is her surname. Valerie Disparity. Beautiful woman, is she, and a woman of the north. She has accumulated nothing upon the south. Her loin is still but matted with the flesh of the hymen. Domination has not been upon her. It is this way, while seduction still drools from herself.
Many men turn their eyes, distracted by something so natural for a man to be a distraction. Away from the sufferings of poverty, a man throws his glance in Valerie’s direction. He will grope, as the pauper, to reach for an apple or a peach, because morality is not of him.
Valerie’s face, so brimming with red, welled up upon cheeks that run the red to her collarbones. The red ceases upon that spot, and we notice her lips, as well with crimson from an applied cosmetic. Her face, and then her eyes are too, noticed, with blue irises, creating a scenery of one sky above and two places to look. Withdraw from it, and you will lean towards Hell, towards the poverty where a life crawls on knees and only the knees.
Her future, dreamed to be a paradise of an envisioned eternity of escapism. There is nothing that Valerie delights more in, besides the urge to be away. From what, does one ask? What to escape from, and to what future of what paradise of escapism? A future so uncertain is there for her, and seemingly throws light upon her face, and such hued cheeks turn gray as dust. She feels fear.
A future full of her independence, and yet, the dumbest of men could comprehend that a woman’s focus is her past, her memories; and all of her mind entwined as a reminder to what was good. What was once good, that is, is her prime focus. The first kiss. The first dance. The first romance. And then, the first bedding, with a man of her choosing.
The dumb man cannot ever see the past of a woman, unless he ask for its reminiscent words departed from her parted mouth.
The reminder in what a woman says is her correction to a past, is the past as tainted, and she throws the past forward; and in doing this, the past is recreated in men. A man’s mistakes is recreated; and of curiosity directed solely as a woman’s instinct, there is life continually either preserved or destroyed. What has it for a woman to destroy life, to act as men, to be as brutal and stupid, as men? Carefulness would be of a woman’s regime, were curiosity not to be among her instincts.
Curiosity creates envy. Envy creates lust. Lust creates pride, even should an accomplishment not be made. Pride soon becomes as loose as happiness, as contentment, until no accomplishment is made; and then, among bloodied, brutal people that we are, we find comfort only in blood, in conflict, in life.
Oh, Valerie; with crimson upon shades of crimson. There is lightness in your breath, and speechlessness in your gaze. There is quality in your bosom, and life in your stillness when one marvels upon you even dancing. Love, we will do; though, the only gift we will have is humble gratitude.