I just wrote a little story. It's really more of a thought than a story. I decided to place it in the NF board because I'm an NF and it's sort of an NFish thought.
“Miss,” he started, “I felt that I must speak to you. My stopping you at the door was not merely an impulse, but an imperative, for you are not merely a lure, but a magnet, and I was not merely enticed, but constrained to approach you. And I must elucidate a facet of reality that may have eluded you. What I will tell you may not have been said before, but it is thought by everyone you pass.”
“Do you recognize that everything in your vicinity is redefined by you? Pour water into an open bottle, and it is the water that becomes bottled. But you are the water that makes the bottle wet. Your essence defines this Room that we now occupy, so when you leave, it will be The Room you were in last, and as you pass through the next room, it will become The Room adjacent to The Room you were in last, and in time, it will be the Room that held you so long ago. Through your proximity, it has acquired meaning - as have I.”
“Your nearness is my greatest virtue, and your attention is my greatest acquisition. No ground deserves your feet; no air deserves your lungs; no eyes are fit to behold you. The fullness of your beauty defies perception, so limited are the senses. No sculptor could improve your immaculate form, and no memory is worthy of attempting to recreate it. How did the earth spin before you walked upon it? How did the sun burn? You are the justification for life itself.”
He looked pathetic, subservient, as if he was begging her to accept his words.
The words he spoke puzzled her more than his quixotic manner. Were it not for his obvious, humble sincerity, she would have easily written him off as an eccentric jokester, but she could not do so. Due to her poor track record with men in general, he saw herself as rather plain - not ugly, but certainly not attractive, not notably so. She was wrong in this estimation.
In fact, she was ugly, and notably so. Were she not, he would have chosen one of the other six women in the room to speak to. Of the seven, she was by far the most repulsive. She was chosen by him precisely for this reason. She would never know this, of course, and before she left the room she had begun to pity the other women.
His sincerity was unquestionable. With much practice, he had finely tuned the tone of his voice and adjusted his manner so that he would be perceived this way. This was the honing of skill that accompanies every art. Skill comes with time, and in time, the art produced becomes more complex or more refined, reflecting the vision of the artist and revealing his fingerprint as it creates the emotional effect that he desires. He had long since abandoned the lie that lies are wrong. He knew that simple labels on complicated matters were never accurate and that truth was often more harmful than falsehood. Some music is liberating to hear. Some dishes are a pleasure to eat. Some write, some build, some paint. He lies.