This morning, after a sleepless night of unsavory and wholly self-gratifying fantasy, I got up and went to the bathroom to take a shower. As I undressed myself, I caught a glance of my reflection in the mirror, and was rather startled by the pallid face I'd seen in its great contrast with my inky-brown hair. I finished undressing and straightened myself in front of the mirror.
First I looked at my face, to verify what I'd earlier caught at the corner of my eye. It was true; my face was pale as purified butter, and with my stringy dark hair I looked like your stereotypical creepymanga girl child.
I looked at my groin region; most specifically at my protruding pelvic bones that stick out at least half an inch, and at the area at which the head of the femur connects to the pelvis that had also become strangely protruded. Protruding pelvic bones was nothing odd, but I'd never been so lank that the heads of my femurs would pronounce themselves in such a way.
I looked up to my torso, which wasn't quite so shocking. My ribs were not so abnormally visible. My stomach, though completely flat, was not yet concave. But when I looked at my body on whole, the image was rather unsettling. There stood a late adolescent gaunt and pallid, though still well proportioned and well postured; stringy, like I'd stopped growing in the horizontal direction when I was 12, yet I'd continued to pull upward by the limbs; I was waxy and skeletal and lurid and darkly; the kind of person I see to represent my personage.
It makes sense that my figure would reflect my personage. My personage is rather unsettling, and it feeds my degenerate behaviors: it feeds my scanty eating habits and my aversion to sleep. It feeds other behaviors, such as my tendency to look downward and away from the social (and subsequently away from the sun), and to generally avoid all but the most emotionally intimate interpersonal exchanges; it feeds my generally-seen-as bizarre staunch opposure to personally actuating physical intimacy, while it at the same time feeds my super-secret and (what I consider to be) repugnant tendency to spend many hours of the night in contriving ridiculously complex fantasies of bondage and masochism and other more common forms of physical intimacy. And importantly, it feeds my reflexive fascination with myself, the narcissist within me, if you will.
I sicken myself, but the complexity of my personage's convolution is such that it is artistically beautiful. By this, I can enjoy myself. For there lies beauty in discord. For I love pain because then can only follow pleasure. For I love enslavement because it plays just like romantic love. What is opposition but perfect accord, when it's considered holistically?