THE SILENT CRYING OF VANITY (Original Story/ENG) | By nachomolina

The hard race for perfection!, this madness of mine has become my ruin and my apocryphal comfort space. Cruel asymmetric world, you have trapped me in your bramble. I must have been a boring '70s vedette, a cabaret witch in a rented dressing room for $ 30 cents an hour, just like that, I would not have known the wonderful mockery of the scalpel...
I have tired of looking for the impossible dream. When my hips were narrow, narrow enough for a jean size s-s, I should have stopped that day, I should have thrown my stubbornness from the Oxford Bridge in London; waiting for some guy from Hertford College.
Now I am a dead rose, dying silhouette drawn in black and white, that creeps waiting for its turn for a new surgery... What a fad! is to touch up at the temples, to cover the vestiges of time... But well!, It was already sounded! the only truth is that I need to highlight my 'Aura', I deserve some glamor, when in these streets is all competition. I can not stay behind! and belong to the clan of the ugly. Never! I was born when the double luxe make-up case with 52 colors was invented...
Someone tell me! Where is the woman who is satisfied with her attributes? Then raise her hand... How could I end up talking alone! I have a lot to hide and little to show, but I will not look at this face again!, without first fixing my appointment with Dr. Carrington. He knows how to understand a Goddess of stardom, he will know how to draw with his subtle hand, the remaining silhouette that cannot reflect this damn mirror. He will dry my tears and end the crying of my vanity, when I am silent...