The scene was seen but the seen was not the scene.

What a deep and twisted mind she has. Or is it just plain meaningless and stupid? No, that’s the doubtful me thinking this. She is brilliant. She always has me in awe of her. I am in her just like there is a fine line between the brilliant and stupid; intense and obscure. Ow! My head hurts. I wonder if her head has ever felt like a melting puddle of brain, my head right now feels like the water left behind post-saturation. Her cooking is crystalline, purest of the pure. My distribution of her work loosely ties up at best to make it seem like a success. I don’t get involved in her process, I stay out of it in fear of messing up perfection. Can you mess up perfection though? Perfection itself is ideal, is faultless. Does this make sense? Ah! She would know. This is why I don’t get involved in the cooking. I lose myself to the point of obscurity.

Those jeans are in her genes.

Those jeans have fulfilled its destiny by being on her body. If I looked like her I wouldn’t be slaving myself at the desk, living in sweat, trying to prove myself over and over again until I catered to perfection and met everyone’s whims. I would command the world with those jeans, I would make the world cater to my fancies. Oh, what an easy world it would be! Sashaying and blinking, are they even the right combinations? I wouldn’t know. This is why I prefer to hide under, go deep inside the dark letting her genes be at the forefront. She says I have what it takes to come out from under, what does she know? She will never understand the joy and freedom that lies in obscurity, in the twilight. It has a beautiful haze in who’s glow I would never even be a shadow.

I don’t know if I would rather be seen or part of the scene. Seen and scene. Compliment or Complement. Compliment and Complement. Neither or either. I also don’t know which one I would prefer and which one I am.