Lisa had walked. Now, she lays. Upon a back with her eyes to the sunlight. It is her ceiling. Such a golden wash of hues extends to her resplendent, ivory face. What woman, any like her, can be she who eclipses all the stars to make the pitch darkness?
Then, to create a new sort of painting for life to see.
She has spawned that life, making new curious eyes.
From the most direct of truths, it is by no means a man can understand a woman, entirely. What does Joel comprehend, of Lisa?
A comprehension is to understand creation. Guilt builds, which is why destruction is never created. One cannot make art into decay, and title it something like a creation. One cannot say that death is created, for nothing can be preserved of it, unless it still holds worth for studious value. Therefore, to understand a woman means to comprehend what has been created.
If all men fault themselves on understanding a woman, then it is because the world has faulted itself on creating her. Shaping her, molding her, for her curiosity stems to areas of where she seeks light. She eclipses stars, only to bury past hurts.
A man is only half-way to understanding truth, and half-way challenged to not be distracted by anything else. A man can see a heart of a woman who is loved by him, though holds nothing if all he soaks himself in is the sweat from flesh. Lust, of continual dissatisfaction, makes of a woman her disorder. The using of her, of her body, causes her. A causation to a creation, is the difference between disorder and order.
What of Joel? What has he caused?
Love would not cause. An imperfection, so much like the mistakes a man makes, falls upon a woman’s form, making her perhaps obsolete to his eyes. Love is perfect. A man makes imperfection through causation, though creates perfection through creation.
How many women are curious to see what is beyond? How is Lisa to fit in this? Her eyes see Joel’s desires, emanating from his gaze. Her eyes see what he wants, though never what he needs.
Has he found his way to her heart?
A woman’s heart is not the clay. A woman’s heart is the ruby. Break her heart, and the surrounding flesh outside the skeleton becomes haggard. It becomes dried, void of blood, void of youth, as she is unable to call herself “beautiful”, any longer.
To what a woman says, being the words, “I care not for relationships, nor what another person thinks of me,” this translates to, “I no longer wish to be in someone else’s control.”
No woman, it seems, can pretend to take control. All women, it seems, want control enough to settle for the imperfect state of a something. As in, to adopt the power in what a man has caused. She looks to his errors, scorns them, only because he had not been better. She looks to the absence of the creator, rather than to his presence, and says it is right. In this, she goes to adopt his path.
All men are there to yield, to keep back, upon when they mean to create. This defines respect, for her. Yet, when they act, they cause. What proof, in any love, in the relationship between a man and a woman, is needed in further continuance when he has already done it? A first, and never to a second, is all the action required of a man to say he is there.
Why would a man need to open the door to her, or for her, a second time? A man is challenged, in this respect, to not cause, to allow space, to not be distracted, and to remain focused on a singular.