Unbeautiful

A 150-page magazine can write a hundred pages about how it's acceptable to be fat; but the other fifty pages are packed with at least ten pictures of the thin and beautiful on each, so that it amounts to a total of five hundred thousand words (which, according to IB-smarts equals two hundred and fifty pages?) of propaganda that strictly dictates THIN IS GOOD.

Because a picture is worth a thousand words, right?
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You can parade around saying fat is beautiful and having the normal weight is the healthy thing to do. But the reason publications with skinny models sell so well is only because that's what the public that buys it wants. On the other hand it always looks so good when you're tolerant of every single variable that might crop up in a human being; so that if you had any opinions invested against *gasp* (Turn your eyes away! Taboo comment!) fat people, you instantly become sort of fat-bigoted monster.

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Isn't it ironic that obesity is the disease of the affluent?

Oh, wait. Let's rephrase that; the disease of the people who can afford to buy the tools of widespread social propaganda magazines?

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So when you're fat, you're not beautiful because you're not thin--but no one with an inch of consideration will ever tell you it makes you ugly. So you're nonbeautiful. Nonugly.

Unbeautiful?

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Let's face it, what most sane people want is for it to be understood that a healthy state of well-being is of the utmost importance. The problem now is that healthy has become synonymous with 'thin'; and these sane people do not agree with anorexia.

So it's kind of a situation of damned if you do, damned if you don't. Because it seems like you're either against being thin. Or against being fat.





Oh, the humanity.

Him and I

[I am a girl]

Until that day, no one had even noticed his existence. He’d walk past corridors unseen and unfamiliar amidst a sea of faces. He’d sit there; there beneath the same shady maple tree out in the courtyard each morning in a blank invisibility, drowning his mind in the emotional soup of Sylvia Plath. But now things have changed. Now the image of him is imprinted into everyone’s minds – the dark shadows on his face that seemed to whisper a black horror; a requiem to the lifelessness of life.

“They can’t see,” he scribbled unto a worn-out moleskin notebook which he carried with him every day. Those three words caught my eye; those words that carried a frigidly cold essence with them. I sat down on the other side of the tree, fascinated by this new breed of human. On the corner of my eye I saw him digging for something in his rucksack – a black box. In it, a rustic old mirror which he took out. I saw a blank gaze into his own eyes, in those pupils a morbidly fascinating hate for life. Out of a sudden those grey pupils moved and looked straight into my eyes. The school bell rang and I left. I don’t know how, but I could feel his gaze turning into a sharp glare that was pointed at me. I wrote myself a note, “Talk to him.”

The next day I came to the same tree. As always, he was sitting there in solitude. I sat down – this time right next to him. An hour later I found myself conversing with him about life in general. His slurring voice presented an ethereally dark solitude. I don’t know why, but I find myself comforted by the presence of this soul in this world. I felt an inexplicable feeling – some sort of satisfaction in this discovery of someone truly untouched and isolated.

I found a deep solace in spending my time with him. I find there something to be very comforting about knowing that life doesn’t have to be lively. Sometimes a dying life is a good thing. There is a tranquility and peace in this non-energy. I was happy to find that I can have another self – a self without my usual exuberance; without that plastic fakeness of spirit – a self more like myself, who sees life as it is: cold and quiet.

Over time, our conversations would become less and less until they just ceased to exist. I’d stare into his eyes and his into mine, and from just that we could see what each other was thinking – all secrets unveiled; all emotions poured. We’d fall asleep together every night - me on his arms; his head against mine. There developed this close intimacy that I’ve never experienced with any of my past lovers.

One night I woke up in the middle of my slumber. When I looked to my right, I saw how he wasn't there. This isn't uncommon - I knew where he was, and walked to where I expected to find him, near the very same maple tree where we first met. This time it was different though. It was snowing and a thick haze blanketed my body and soul with shivering warmth. I walked slowly, step by step, and began to feel serenity unlike no other, which grew to a peak of thickness and depth when I saw him hanging on that tree. In his eyes I saw lifelessness; a satisfaction of not having any control over his body. I gazed into the beauty of that silence for hours until Gaea swallowed me whole.

The next morning they found me there beneath his swinging corpse, frozen solid, a frigid grin cracking my face. They now remember him as that whisper of black horror. I remember him as my eternal savior: the provider of this black harmony of death.