Prose about Prose, and Its Awful Obligations

I'm beginning to become tortured now, aren't I? Those that live in their mind have comfortable space. I find my mind an unsuitable venue, prone to stumbles, flickering lights. The water is too cold, but there's no one to fix the pipes and nothing, no amount of water will rinse the grime off its surface; it is sordid. Insanity, although undiagnosed, undeniably runs on the maternal side of my family and it is a shame I could find nothing beautiful yet, like Hemingway did (although perhaps he did not find his mind beautiful). But I am not tortured by creative genius, merely lack thereof. Or perhaps misplacement. Sometimes I feel it in my heart, but we both know it has no business there, despite what wizened Greek philosophers may have concluded through their pontifications. It belongs in my mind, but as I said, as minds go, mine is not in high demand. It is a sordid, idle, murky place. 

I looked at myself in the mirror and saw what some could call a beauty, but the varnish is unfinished to the discerning eye. The interior lacks attention, and the structure feels the subtle consequences. And I looked myself in the eye and said "I am beginning to become tortured now, aren't I?" Underneath the grime, a reluctant, y

et stoic, "Yes."

I looked out the window, ashamed. My mind, my heart, they all looked away, and we all saw this: a Renaissance of nature, a parade of rosy pink wisps of vapor dancing, twirling, embraced by the wind. In a bed of warm, never-ending cerulean, a moon of no special crescent or impeccable round shape, but a bit shaved off by time on the left side, he quietly observed, let the tones both cloak and reveal him, always moving, always content. My mind did not change its half-lidded gaze, but my heart saw , oh, she saw what these eyes did, and could no longer remain reticent. It was the idea, the Romantic, unattainable beauty, that made her expand towards it, that made her throw herself every which way, against my chest, spine, ribcage, knocking time and time again, pushing the surrounding water out through my black framed eyes, those which looked back into the mirror and tried to tell her what we had just learned: even if there was a way to reach that beauty, even if flooded the most dank and pungent corners of this wholly unenviable mind, and made me as clean as I was back when all it took was water, what, then, would we do? We, my darling, are simply not wise enough to know. 

Yes, she understood, but it did not satisfy. She asked that laughable apartment beneath this tough copper hair, "Why? Why is it beautiful?" hoping his learned logic could satiate her most instinctive urges. He responded, his heavy eyes closing even more, "I haven't the desire to care."