All people were just perfect, including me.
All the facial features were at the right spot, wrinkle-free skin, no blemishes, perfect height, weight, and above all, we were accepted by society in whatever form and shape we were born with.
Because there was no other way around! We accepted our bodies, in their original form.
Yes, a little tinkering here and there was okay. A little make-up, a trendy haircut, fancy clothes—everything was just an external touch-up. No body-part went under the knife for beauty enhancement.
Tell me what happens to gold when it tarnishes? You polish it. Right?
Tell me what happens to silver when it rusts? You clean it. Am I not right?
Before the 21st century what happened to the flesh when it sagged, hair when it fell and you went bald, skin when it wrinkled and you didn’t have that taut abdomen anymore?
You guessed it right! You lived with it.
No, not anymore. That’s not how the human body is defined in the 21st century.
Earlier when we rusted, we cleaned ourselves. When we tarnished, we polished ourselves. We applied make-up.
That’s how we used to become perfect.
We ate without growing fat. We laughed without growing tired, because we had no lip filler around our lips. We danced without slowing down.
We didn’t count calories back then, because we moved around plenty, kids weren’t couch-potatoes playing video games all the time. Our facial expressions were not artificial because of Botox injection.
Now the spell is broken, and we have come to this—what passes for a life. Being a handmaiden to plastic surgery and Botox for beauty enhancement.
I was a naturalist, once! I was the master of ceremonies. I had aged gracefully—thus far.
Now it’s all about how rich I am. It’s about how many plastic surgeries I can afford to get the perfect chiseled body. I don’t age anymore.
Want a sharp nose? Get the nose job.
Want fuller-lips? Get Botox injection. Or better yet, get the face-lift.
Want larger breasts? Get a silicone implant.
And if nothing works, get designer babies, problem solved. Ditch the moral mind, just go for it. Take the vicarious pleasure through your designer babies. So, what if ethical horror is waiting to happen. Ignore the shadow of Frankenstein’s monster.
And yet, they tell me I am free. That I’ve got my life back.
Everyone tries to tell me this is better.
Do you think that an everlasting life of golden perfection is better than knowing you will grow old and die—slowly and painfully when it is time? Caring about our looks and caring about our souls may not be a zero-sum game, but is it worth going under the knife?
Try and convince me that I’m happier now that the last petal has fallen. Make me see that this short life on the outside is somehow better than my eternal life on the inside.
Please, try. And do let me know.
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