Music for the eyes, a rare GM for me

I stood relatively motionless in the crowded elevator. What was I doing, I asked myself. I was studying, I answered myself. I was studying two of the most beautiful creations that planet Earth could ever come up with. I was irresistibly drawn to continue my study, desperately demanding my mind to carve statues into the granite of my memory. I know who and what I am. Was I in lust, love, or simply enjoying gods artwork? I thought to our physical location, traversing but a small part of this magical gods tapestry, and I soon concluded resoundingly that I could not be in lust at that moment. Love was cast out as a possibility as well, albeit such a conclusion was arrived at quite easily, again considering our surroundings. I was just a nameless face to everyone else here. I reconsidered: was I wrong? As I write these words to you, I have permitted myself to lust. But I wish to share my thoughts thought then, not now.

I drew my gaze across the delicate curves of one face framed in golden strands of hair draped to either side and then to the matching face just inches from the first. Twins? No. Upon a more detailed visual assessment, I could see one was, perhaps, a year younger. The noses, slightly turned up, were identical as were the chins. The attire gift wrapping them matched stitch for stitch, obviously a couture selected for effects not only pleasing to their owners sense of fashion, but to mine also. I slowly ran my stare down one of them until I reached her shoes. I struggled to capture every detail my limited mind could hold only to pause half way up and ask the question again: what was I doing? What did I want?

Biology and sociology coursed their way through my deliberation so I knew my own categorization, unwanted as it was. Yet the intense gravity which drew my attention had a goal, did it not? I closed my eyes, mentally reaching out and touching one, then caressing the neck and breast the other. Did I wish to give love or receive it? Were my opening eyes, now crushing my internal imagery, worthy of experiencing these two? What if they were cloistered safely in my imagination: would I bring them each to the pinnacle of human sensuality of human sexuality exposing them and me to the joys of natural physical appreciation? I knew things that they did not and I wanted to share with them. I did not wish to give OR receive but, rather, to give AND receive.

But the question most prominent in my mind as I stood in that tiny little mechanical box with them was why? Why did I find the child-defining arch of their breast, the color of their eyes, the chubbiness of their cheeks why did I find those things and more, so attractive? I knew then what thousands of portrait artists the world over want to convey to their ambiguous viewers. I knew how each master of images had felt as he struggled to get the curvature, distances, colors and poses just right. I knew how he wanted that fleeting moment of visual pleasure to be captured on canvas or in stone. I selfishly wanted for myself the transient, ephemeral moment in life to turn into a paradise of unrelenting, indefinite existence with these two divine beings as theological centers of my religion. My confession here serves as my confirmation that I am in deep, pedophilic love with angels.