It isn't possible to love and to part. You will wish that it was.
And I hate it when she puts that lipstick on. Like a mortician painted on her face, a cold and lonely lovely work of art, a death role hanging in exhibition. She doesn't belong to me, those lips make her, acceptable and more gorgeous. That lipstick strips her to a photograph that does not recognize me and I can't touch her anymore. I wish that I could part from her but I fall before her, begging her to return, dying away from her deathly pallor with those dark red lips.
I have to finish the hat.
Should we or shouldn't we strive for beauty? Beauty is pain. The most beautiful art is painful. I don't want to hurt anymore. What of those who say that art is the ideal of life? We love the beautiful sacrifice because we don't want it. Yet those who would sacrifice themselves for art are considered tragically hip, not tragic. Authentic is not art. Art cannot be authentic. The most beautiful art transcends artifice; but then ceases to be art as it approaches authenticity. Art is artifice, not innocence. The best art is that which conceals its artifice. Artificial authenticity. Is that our ideal? Authentic artificiality? Neither is right, neither is what affects us. Is art a condition, a condition which must be recognized, rather than classification or a mimetic process? Is art a moment, and can it be recorded?
Just being alive/ it can really hurt.
And in that sublime moment, I must say I have trouble recognizing the aesthetic significance. I don't want to succumb to parting or poison. When life reaches art, is that the end?