war of the worlds

My wife is a woman. She never was a man.
But she was something peculiar, and now she's beautiful, because she's smiling: she knows it.

The central limit theorem states that there is, was, an in-between value - rather, if there was an in-between value, then there was certainly the other side of it, don't you think? Defined by its liminality.

Something very, very peculiar.

If a woman walks in the park and no one's around to see it, the fresh air has still greeted her, caressed her hair, skied her sloping nose.

But if she exists, adjacent to another - nominal - woman, as a male accessory, how private can be her joke?

She becomes a specimen on display.

Commanding my family, look at her chest!
Observe the hope sprung eternal in this lady's breasts.

If she remains unseen, she is both and neither. And if she is seen, presented before obliviousness, knowing herself to be not and still, then she gains a skill she should have no need of; certainly, no want of.

To become what she once "was" in a dual layer atop what she has "always" been, better and worse than a chameleon, sicker than a drunken fa-façade.

There is no personal sensibility, in isolation. There is only looking in the mirror, smiling at an echo that rings sheltered hollow forever.