The becoming

Never let life be boring to you again. Grow a million pretty faces and make it stare at each and every one of them, hate them or adore them, whichever works best.

It all started like a simple and yet so personal affair: the reconstruction of her soft, well-behaved self (which she dearly loved, but desperately needed to part from). She already had the design in her mind and she was going to be her own architect, which pleased her greatly.

You can think of it like her little pet project or like a highly exclusive boutique specialized in manufacturing rare human traits, such as politeness, sensuality or charm. Many choices for as many lovers: the beautiful and naive, the beautiful and malicious, the beautiful and heartless, the beautiful and forever wrecked. And the most feared and desired of them all: the powerful. She was not beautiful, for the power knows better than that: she was gorgeous.

So her chameleon soul was laying there awake, lusting for every shape and color in the world when it started. The vain doll and the average nice girl fighting inside her: a self-induced orgy that would keep on for days and weeks and months. She was playing the brave and the weak without taking sides, she was tricking herself into doing everything she ever wanted. It was intense, but it wasn’t always pretty. Finally she succeeded at getting her way and so she learned that her million pretty faces had their worth. She was glowing.

But somewhere, lost between the right and the wrong, the sparkles and the stones, the white stripes and the ramones, there was the void of her becoming. The emptiness filled satisfaction like a body on steroids. I guess that when you fake it, nothing is for real anymore, not even glory.

My beautiful mind-crafted egos, I love you all, I love you none.

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