The Birth of Hunger – June 1, 1837 They do not see me.

They never did.

I slipped through the hall like a shadow, past figures draped in gold, past lips that sip and smirk, past eyes that look without seeing. The air is thick with chatter of the nobility, and the quiet, unspoken knowledge that everyone here is playing a part. Yet beneath the silks and jewels, beneath the pretense, they are nothing. Nothing but flesh, a work of art.

I wonder, how would they look without it all?

The courtiers moved like painted dolls, delicate hands gesturing, brushing against one another in feigned interest. The refined women, corseted into impossible shapes, their throats bare, their soft chuckles, like potions bubbling in a cauldron. The upper-class men, clad in intricately designed finery, their posture stiff, their arrogance acts as their second layer of skin; but I see past the fabric, past the layers of wealth. I see the soft, pale things that lie beneath.

The emperor, he sits proudly on his throne, his well-rounded body, plump hands, adorned with ruby rings. He believes himself divine, untouchable. But he is no different from the rest – just a man with a fleshy physique, covered in richly decorated cloth, desperate to be adored.

I can imagine his bare stomach, pale and heavy, exposed in the open. No silk. No jewels. No pretense.

I pressed my fingers against the brick wall, steadying myself, inhaling a sharp breath. The hunger knots tightened within me. This sweet, aching thing that lingers inside. It will not leave me. I must and will feed it.

I needed a plan. A lie. A game so beautiful he will willingly beg to play it.

I will speak of a cloth so rare, so delicate, that only the sage and worthy can see it. And they will nod, will pretend, and will wrap themselves in my words, so believable.

I will watch as the emperor strides out his castle, his skin bared to the world, and no one will dare to say a thing.

He will revel in his own undoing.

And I will watch intensely. And smile. A smile brighter than a galaxy of stars.

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Invisible Fabric – June 2, 1837 He let me touch him today.

Not his skin – no, not yet. But his mind. His pride. His very sense of self.

The moment I spoke, I knew he had been sold. A fabric so exquisite, so impossibly deli- cate, that only the sage, the worthy, the important could see it. His gasp was that of a fish out of water. His lips parted. And I saw it – the desperation coiled behind his eyes. He longs to be adorned in divinity, to step beyond mere mortal flesh, to make himself more eminent. He does not realise that I am the one shaping him into exactly that yet. Just yet.

I spun my tale as a spider weaves intricate webs. He listened. He swallowed it whole with not an ounce of doubt.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, I must have this! Make it for me and get 100 gold pieces in return!” he ordered.

And so I stood before him, hands clasped behind my back, fighting the shudder of delight creeping up my spine. I promised him his clothes. Little did he know, no money would ever be enough; his rawness and to see him, unclothed, was priceless.

Tomorrow, I begin. I will set up my empty spools, my loom made of air and illusion. They will come to watch me weave nothing into something, and nod, gaslighting themselves into thinking there’s a piece of fabric before them.

And himself? He will be astounded just by the fabric, so exquisite, that he will call all his people to see it, to admire it the way I will at him, the day he parades with nothing.

He is the masterpiece himself.

He will stand before me, bare, and believe he is clothed. And when time comes, when he steps into the streets, naked beneath the heavens, I will watch him with bewitched eyes.

I waited all my life to witness such a thing. And I will have it.

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The Emperor’s Unravel – June 5, 1837 I have seen him.

The emperor. I have seen him. The thing that has been hiding beneath his silk ensembles, beneath his jewels, beneath his conceitedness, and his gold-threaded lies.

The parade was everything I could dream of. He decked out in his delusions, his toned skin shimmered as the sun cast its golden rays onto him. He strode as if he were draped in divinity, unaware that his people had turned to stone, their mouths silent tombs of fear and obedience.

I watched the crowd. Their eyes flickered, their throats closed, their hands twitched toward their mouths – but none spoke. Their silence already spoke volumes.

I trembled at the alluring sight of Him.

He walked, step after another, with this arrogant smile of his. His hands skimmed the air where fabric should have been, stroking nothing but mere deceit. And no one, no one, said a word to him. Not a single soul dared.

I had feared some wretched soul would cry the truth, that my art would shatter before it was fully displayed. But no, even the boy who attempted to whisper the words – he isn’t even wearing anything” was stopped, the second his father placed a hand over his mouth.

They let him walk.                                                                                                                          

They let him be seen.

They let a priceless piece of art be exhibited to the world.

And yet, something inside me stirs, leaving me restless, unsatisfied.

I should be gleaming in the taste of victory, in the giddy pleasure of watching Him, stripped, bare, glowing with ethereal beauty beneath the golden sun. And yet, he did not break. His pride held him together like stitches in torn flesh. He still believes himself as clothed. He still believes that he is draped. But the ensembles he wears, no matter how lavish, only ruins him, ruins the masterpiece I actually longed to show to the world.

And because of that, I am not finished.

I thought this would be the greatest masterpiece of my life. But now I see – it is just the beginning.

I crave for more.

More masterpieces are calling for me to unveil.

More fragile creatures to gaze at as they stride, disrobed, as their purest and most raw version of themselves, just as they were brought onto earth.

And I will be there, always. Watching, aching for more.*