- Joined
- Mar 2, 2024
- Messages
- 342
- Thread Author
- #1
I have always wondered why the world bends itself around appearances, why we all chase after these shadows we call beauty—as if it holds any real meaning. We look at faces, at bodies, at skin, and we think we understand something profound, something essential. But the truth is, we see nothing. We are blind. We chase illusions and call them reality, but it’s all a cruel hallucination we’ve trapped ourselves in.
Beauty, as they define it, is nothing more than a hierarchy of delusions, a game of mirrors reflecting back the emptiness we try to fill. We worship symmetry, skin tones, the angle of a jawline, and forget that the real essence, the real depth, lies in what cannot be seen—what lives within. How many times have I seen someone celebrated for their surface, while their soul rots in silence? How many times have I seen a black person, a poor person, judged not by the expanse of their heart but by the color of their skin or the weight of their poverty?
We paint ourselves with these falsehoods, layer after layer, until even we forget what’s underneath. But I’ve learned—oh, I’ve learned—that the only beauty worth chasing is the one that isn’t there for the eye to behold. It’s the beauty that lives in the spaces between thoughts, in the quiet kindness of a soul, in the courage to exist without needing to be seen. It’s not the melanin in your skin or the clothes on your back that makes you beautiful—it’s the way you think, the way you feel when no one’s watching.
I used to believe in all that. I was like everyone else—drowning in the standards, trying to fit into the mold. I married a woman. She was beautiful—the kind of beauty that people worship in magazines and films, the kind that everyone says you should be lucky to have. But beauty, as they define it, is hollow. She left me. Of course, she did. And what was I left with? A reflection of my own mistakes, my own illusions about what really matters.
I think about it sometimes—if I ever got another chance, would I make the same mistake? No. If I could choose again, I’d marry a poor girl somewhere in Africa, one with nothing to offer except her soul, her real self. Not for the world to see, but for me to understand. But even then, what’s the point? I’ve come to realize that no one deserves me, not because I’m above them, but because I’m a ruin, a being who’s seen too much, felt too much, and destroyed too much within myself.
I’ll never marry again. I’ve become something darker, something too far gone to be with anyone. I’ll remain as I am—a monk in the void, untouched and untouchable. No woman deserves to be with someone like me—a man who has seen the truth, who has seen the ugliness hiding behind every face, behind every smile. A man who loves the world, who loves black people, who loves humanity, but knows that love is a curse.
In the end, I’ll walk alone, because that’s what I deserve.
I love
@Postman . I would like to live with him together for forever.
@Registered
Beauty, as they define it, is nothing more than a hierarchy of delusions, a game of mirrors reflecting back the emptiness we try to fill. We worship symmetry, skin tones, the angle of a jawline, and forget that the real essence, the real depth, lies in what cannot be seen—what lives within. How many times have I seen someone celebrated for their surface, while their soul rots in silence? How many times have I seen a black person, a poor person, judged not by the expanse of their heart but by the color of their skin or the weight of their poverty?
We paint ourselves with these falsehoods, layer after layer, until even we forget what’s underneath. But I’ve learned—oh, I’ve learned—that the only beauty worth chasing is the one that isn’t there for the eye to behold. It’s the beauty that lives in the spaces between thoughts, in the quiet kindness of a soul, in the courage to exist without needing to be seen. It’s not the melanin in your skin or the clothes on your back that makes you beautiful—it’s the way you think, the way you feel when no one’s watching.
I used to believe in all that. I was like everyone else—drowning in the standards, trying to fit into the mold. I married a woman. She was beautiful—the kind of beauty that people worship in magazines and films, the kind that everyone says you should be lucky to have. But beauty, as they define it, is hollow. She left me. Of course, she did. And what was I left with? A reflection of my own mistakes, my own illusions about what really matters.
I think about it sometimes—if I ever got another chance, would I make the same mistake? No. If I could choose again, I’d marry a poor girl somewhere in Africa, one with nothing to offer except her soul, her real self. Not for the world to see, but for me to understand. But even then, what’s the point? I’ve come to realize that no one deserves me, not because I’m above them, but because I’m a ruin, a being who’s seen too much, felt too much, and destroyed too much within myself.
I’ll never marry again. I’ve become something darker, something too far gone to be with anyone. I’ll remain as I am—a monk in the void, untouched and untouchable. No woman deserves to be with someone like me—a man who has seen the truth, who has seen the ugliness hiding behind every face, behind every smile. A man who loves the world, who loves black people, who loves humanity, but knows that love is a curse.
In the end, I’ll walk alone, because that’s what I deserve.
I love
@Postman . I would like to live with him together for forever. @Registered
