A Consequence of Lacking

Artist and His Model, 1926, Pablo Picasso (c)

I figured that some things were just left missing. A vacant and hollow space that lacked anything to grasp onto was probably our point of failure. Or at least the mark of something second best, and with any chance of success only applicable if charted into pyramids. But I wonder of the magic hidden within the mix of sand, that tasted of salt, and guilt, and the burden of life. 

It's a coarse road ahead. And yet preaching of self-love, beauty, and all the power they (appear to) hold, make headlines - price tags attached. Sometimes 'bold' yet materialized, numerable empowerment sickens me for its repeated loss of depth. I know what it feels like to put on red lipstick. But I'm sure it's supposed to mean much more than just that. I wish being woman didn't mean bearing the guilt of a built-to-measure existence. 

If I could ask for any kind of power at all, I would wish to just 'be'.