On the one hand, if he never really liked you, then he only liked you for that which was a part of you, albeit, artificial. Yet, on the other hand, though a part of us, may be artificial, it is still an extension of our self. Furthermore, what is the self? Does the self stop at the boundaries of your soul? If so, then one's body is not them self. Yet, that very body, with it's skin, it's fine shapely features, it's nooks, it's crannies, it's faults, it's compliments to it's owner, ye, the very heart of that beastly biological mechanization, pumps the very blood, that lights up the neurons of the very brain who's vast and timed networks of chemical/electrical impulses, constitutes the very soul in question. And if the boundary of that soul is now extended to the tips of one's toes, and to the top of one's head, what then of the sounds of music that move that soul? What then of cold chilly wind on an autumn day that moves one to a sense of beauty as the sight of autumn leaves falling gives pause in an otherwise tumultuous life? Are not those sensations then, in some way perhaps, belonging to the soul? And what of that soul's desires, and dreams? Are they not woven tapestries of lived experience? Are they not deeply coded programs, written in some strange and indecipherable language, who's inputs came to rest them in the mind of the seer, the hearer, the taster, and the feeler? What then is the man, but an extension of one's vanity? Does he not artificially lengthen the natural woman beneath? Like the very hair in question, does he not artificially make up for, that which is deemed naught? Where then does one draw the line, between the natural and the artificial? He loves me, he loves me not? In a world so lacking in color, could we not offer a few shades of gray to the gods of our miserable discontent, that they might be merciful upon us, in our perpetually damning confusions? And if that is so, perhaps, then we could dare a splash of red: the color of passion. Then two, perhaps a bit of purple: for our healing. Again, perhaps some green: for our humble (or not so humble desires). Some blue perhaps? For what is happiness without knowing a bit of sorrow? Hell, let's make it a rainbow. For if we be damned, let us be damned in full glorious color. Where then does the man begin and end? Is he extension of woman? Or is woman extension of man? And if neither seems to suit, perhaps... The answer lies not with me.
What is your quest?