Many
view the
human body as a source of inspiration, temption,
shame, and obsession. We reveal ourselves in our
attractions and our desires. We celebrate and revile the human form in
all  its beauty. The gentle curve, the strength
beneath the surface, the soft trembling force of life. Poet and painter
alike have documented every nuance, every sigh, every inch of skin.
Whether it is the gentle touch of your mother's hand, or the incessant
pull of your lover's embrace, the human body can be a refuge. And
yet
in so
many ways, our views of the human body are outside of reality,
distorted. Both
the
male and female form have become objects; commodities on the open
market. Each image is an unattainable state of perfection. How can we
touch up the image in the mirror? Now
in darker times, our bodies  also become our prisons. A storehouse for
our
pain, our sadness,
our shame. Or so we tell ourselves. All the while our eyes tell
the story of a life not completely lived.
Somewhere along the way, death came early to the walking wounded. And
in there lies the irony, because how can you truly know the joys of
life without knowing loss. Until
we learn that our bodies are the depositories of our experiences. It
shows itself
in the hunchback of misery and in the sway and swagger of
delight. In the end, every body is a temple, and everybody is a Star.
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