I live a two-dimensional life, and yet I have mass. I can feel the weight of the bricks and mortar at my back that hold me upright, the smoothness of the plaster that makes up the sky all around me and the ground at my feet. I stare all day every day into the infinite distances the stretch out in front of me. Admittedly, I’m a bit of misanthrope. While people who live in the world on the other side from me often stop to gawk, I never look them in the eyes or greet them with a kind word. On the other hand, I don’t tell them to fuck off, either, even when I overhear them discussing how I should be cut down and sold off to the highest bidder. How, in good conscience, could anyone cut down and sell off a whole universe, even if that universe is inhabited by only one soul? I ignore them as best I can and commit myself to holding the pose my creator chose for me. This is what I was born to do. This is my purpose in life. This is how I honor my creator for having the guts to conceive me in the first place. But if someone, anyone, ever thought of me as something more than just an image on a wall and asked how I felt about anything, I might find the will to break my pose for just a moment and admit that, like the bouquet of flowers that sizzles with danger in my hand, I wish my creator had rendered me in color.
