She sat at her dresser, looking at the motionless reflection that stood infront of her. She studied her long luscious locks of black hair, which fell like strands of fine ebony silk in such a way the old fashioned French could only describe as bien cuit or done to perfection. Her skin smooth to the touch, like a porcelain goddess there were no wrinkles visible to the naked eye, not even the tiniest ripple of age. Her luminous eyes could see through any man's soul, and her stares burned imprints of desire and lust into their brains making them weak and unhinged...Insanity! She smiled and it shone like genuine pearls incandescently lit by the sun's rays. She had everything, yet she had nothing. Her mirrored image was but a canvas of black and white. The absence of colors. There were no vibrant pigments to wrap her in blankets of warmth and tenderness. There were no hues of blue to cool her down on a hot summer's day.
She closed her eyes and felt herself fall into a trance. Her dream was a different world...a world of certainty and strength. A world of love and sensitivity. A world of union instead of divisibility. If she could dream forever, the life of intemperance would be in her hands. If she could dream forever, the existence of reality would be just a distant memory. If she could dream forever, the dictionary would lose its word called "purpose." The painter of dreams lived in her mind, body, and soul. She knew it was time to separate normality with divinity as she awoke. To dream, dream, dream. To lay in the lap of the painter...to entrust the keeper of the canvas. To dream a life worth living, is a dream she knew all too well. And so, she was the painter of reality and she was the painter of the norm. He was her painter in dreams to follow....and hand in hand they became one.
J. Lacsamana
