Everyone thinks beauty is a question of superlatives: you're a ten, you're an angel, you are the most X that I've ever met––for whatever value of X you like. And in a sense, this is not entirely untrue. Where the error creeps in is in the direction of assessment. Because beauty is not defined positively, but negatively, by the strength of its negation. You have always known you are beautiful; you see it it in the mirror every day––it's a fucking bore. The only place your beauty matters is as a selection for the man who is bigger than it, who can refuse it or embrace it with utter indifference.
Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by!
I am the refusal of your beauty. I am professionally accomplished, in excellent physical shape, and have an imperious will that would sooner die ten deaths than be thwarted in attracting what it wants. I will cut through your narcissism like a blade, but only to better cultivate you for the potential that is in you. If you have it natively in you to sprout wings and fly to the stars, it is me that will see it and nourish it. In return you will be intelligent and interesting; the beauty is already established. Not bothered about exact ages, but let's say 23 to 35.
I'm not interested in being friends, or having cosy chats, or chaste refusals of the pleasures our bodies see fit to provide us with. I am interested in plunging into the labyrinth of another's being, and finding depths that were not visibly there. You will be too; that's why you're reading this and not sourcing manlings on Tinder.
Take my hand, jump off the cliff––send the message.
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