The beauty isn’t in her age or experience.
It isn’t even in her wisdom, nor the applause of her ancient cobblestone streets that have been polished into their dark sheen, illuminated in the twilight sun so that they look like they were just set and laid.
It is in the way her eyes pierce her subjects, even when she doesn’t look directly at them.
She draws everything she sees in her mind, to the point that she can only recognize what she wants to, manipulating and manifesting the world to her own desires. She paints everything fresco, letting her vision dry with the truths she lays. She sculpts her immortality with every breathe.
But when she does so, she does it knowing that everything is truly finite. There are no preconceived notions, nor expectations, about her creations. She knows that her art is a revelation of herself as much as it is her projection onto her martyrs.
And that’s why, only so when she is of that certain breed, can she truly be tamed unlike any other. For anyone not an artist like her doesn’t know what it’s like to lose oneself. The others expect to be hunted and trapped and teased and seduced.
She knows she can only be taken by giving herself completely.
