She sat on a chair, with her hands folded on the knees which she had raised to sustain her chin. Her eyes were closed, as if burdened by a weight which she resisted with quiet contemplation. There was no smile on her face. Her teeth were clenched and her lips quivered; signs of a profound and difficult emotion. Suddenly, she straightened her back, took a deep breath and tightened a fist which she gently bit into, as if to comfort herself, like a young girl holding her father’s hand through the darkest and coldest of places. Her eyes opened and she scrambled in search of pen and paper for her to scribble upon.

Sentences were spat out sporadically, sometimes with eyes tightened as if looking at a city on fire, and other times with her mouth slightly open and the same frown that soldiers discover when they stumble upon a massacre; the emotion was different, however, as it stood free of a subject. Her facial expressions changed, and so did her moods, but her sentences all symbolised those moments when she felt the rise of those most difficult of emotions:

“Life, it slowly leaks out of my soul, burning the ground which I spit upon and stare at in disgust. The dust which I breathe and the lethargy that defines; I cringe and I spit upon the kitchen floor, I scream in agony and I bite my lips and bleed.

“There is no truth in existence, except the moods which infect our souls and strangle our hearts. There is no beauty in life except the decadence we experience and the dirt that we must learn to savour. Then why must we live, if not to create.

“My rush of thought deadens, leaving me cold and empty upon a chair which grows increasingly uncomfortable. Thus I move to my room, lay down quietly and hope to die, even if only for a few instants.

“I close my eyes, but they agitate, my muscles grow tense and I scream again; my eyes open. There is an anger within me and I do not know from where it flows, but it is there for all to see, if only in those most precious of times when the pain resurfaces like a sickness that will not go away. It overwhelms my soul, like a drug which one loves and hates, like those moments when a painful emotion captures us like no other and we write.

Her friends looked on in compassion, but they knew her well enough to spare her their concern. When the scribbles of her pen quieted down and her face offered a subtle smile of solid satisfaction, Safi gently shifted his chords so as to evoke those emotions we experience when a new sun slowly but steadily invigorates our lives. She trembled still under the influence of difficult emotions, but she was now free, with words written down to capture the beauty and meaning which she had experienced.

Safi’s music progressed towards ever brighter emotions, and her smile widened, with those large, glimmering eyes of hers staring at him with warmth; he understood her like only the closest of friends do. He did not distract her as she focused on those emotions which she had to face, but when it was time to turn the page, his music changed as if to guide her towards a more joyous day. She stood up and smiled, with light shining beneath her eyes — eyes which she then closed as she laid her back against a wall, inspired, expired, sat down and inspired once again.

On the floor ahead of her was a cherry-wood box covered in a Klimtesque pattern of ancient browns and modest yellows, formed into strings of shapes and a background of squares. Along the sides of the box’s cover grew sparse, irregular flowers of a minimalistic design. There was a thin green line for the stem and a dark, blood red for the head. The composition was memorable.

Adeline took this box and separated its two parts so as to form a ritual to shift the mind. She took the flower bud, crumbled it into her left hand and poured the results into a leaf of rolling paper which she had picked up with her right. After distributing the results, she filled the empty left end of the joint with tobacco. She rolled and rolled, carefully slipped the bottom end of the paper inside, licked the top end and rolled again. She placed the left end of the joint on her soft lips, picked up a lighter, puffed and puffed and closed her eyes. She swallowed up the smoke, reopened her eyes with a smile that spoke of resolution. She took a long deep puff and meditated it away. Then she passed the joint to Safi, put away the paper and laid back, with eyes untroubled. She expired.

Safi took a long and heavy puff, his eyes tightening up as his lungs filled with smoke. His mouth opened into a smile and, along with a wink, his thumb and index pinched together such as to describe perfection. He was that kind of character, with a beret he had bought and a captain’s coat given to him by the friend to whom he passed the joint.

-Dussault

A few days ago, we sat in front of the mirrors from the apartment speaking of beauty. It is clear that your facial characteristics deviate from the norm and it is true that, at least upon first impression, people tend to judge such deviations in a negative manner (1). The word “ugly”, however, is clumsy and best reserved for times when we must be minimalistic in our use of words, such as with jokes and when we do not have the time to be as precise as we would like. This aside, however, the word is only of use for those who wish to insult and those too simple to appreciate beauty in its most subtle forms. Such people are of little interest to you; if they cannot appreciate you, that is their loss. Those who do appreciate you, however, are able to look at a face with such a depth that what matters most of all is the way the face reflects the soul. Have no doubts that your soul is one of the most beautiful and interesting ones that a person can meet. This will be true as long as you allow the full manifestation of the traits that define your individuality — the traits that give you a beauty that cannot be compared.

-Dussault