Still there

They say that Marie-Antoinette died with two diamond studs in her ears, but that when head and body were reunited for the burial the earrings had gone. Those stones still exist, somewhere. Perhaps by now they have been buried with the grandniece of a tricoteuse, perhaps they have been lost behind the wainscoting in an old house in the countryside, and perhaps they are being worn at this moment by a young women ready to get married, given to her by her grandmother, because they are the oldest things available, nobody really knowing exactly how old.
The possibilities of these stones are endless, but, due to the nature of diamonds, we know they still exist, are still somewhere, are more than likely still touched by people but untouched by time. And this is good. They were innocent in the light of what happened, not to be blamed for the events surrounding them, and devoid of meaning in the greater scheme of things, and should therefore be able to end their existence in relative peace and quiet.

Adam was made from dust, and given a wife. Not, as so many would state, Eve, who was third, but Lilith. Made from dust, she was female to his male, alike in any aspect, she was powerfull, intelligent, strong. They were both perfect for created in the likeness of a god. She denied her place of subservience to man and fled paradise.
Adam, not likely an island unto his own and used to the companionship that animals cannot give willingly or at least consentingly, was given a second wife, made from nothing in front of him.
Made from nothing, but build. Bones first, then organs, muscle, eyes, skin, hair and breath last.
Adam, understandably but cruelly shaken by the knowledge of what lies underneath the skin of his new lover is unable to touch her. She is beautiful, a model in an age of nothingness, her face would have been the face of whorship, storms raged in her eyes and honey would've poured from her lips, but he would not touch her, would not even name her.
Some say she was allowed to leave the garden, some that she was destroyed and returned to nothing, some that she remained and he fled to the other side of paradise. Either way, he exhaustedly fell asleep, and from his rib was made a woman. Flesh of his flesh, beauty again but different from the last two, the birth of man, Eve. This last one was the one that took a bite of something she should no have been given acces to, thusly condemning man to mortality, and pain, and the expulsion from paradise.
...
Mortality was a punishment. The imminence of death and the end of self is something used to punish. The poor creature set as second companion did nothing to be punished and therefore is not likely destroyed. And, since no sin befell her she is or should be living still.
If the story is mercifull, she would have left the garden and lived among man, thusly allowing her in time to sin, then die in peace. We know that Eve lived longer than any mortal female, and we therefore know that the unnamed one was never mortal, she would've after all been older than Eve by at least some measure of time.

So either she never sinned, or never left... Imagine... 6010 (the world according to the scripts was created at about 4004 before the birth of christ, and who is to say it isn't so?) years of living in a garden, alone, with the only companionship an Angel garding a gate and a series of animals who've lost the voices they were once given. Insanity should be her due, according to all, but when created perfect is insanity even a chance? An option? I take great comfort in the knowledge that should life ever become too much for me I can always allow myself to follow at least one inner urge and be safely put behind the high and barb-wired walls of the nearest mental institution, peacefully drooling away my days shuffling between the two picture books in the library and the isolation-chamber (crazyness is fine, but take my books and I'll try to gnaw out every nurses artery in sight)
But not for her, still unnamed, still virgin, still alone. Forever.

So it would be better if she left... if she left, but never sinned, only loved for the pure pleasure of love, took what she needed but gave back so much more, never broke a law or crossed a line and left something of herself in all those who have touched her.
The perfect gene, somewhere, somehow, in all of us, giving some people that little something out of nothing, as she was made of nothing, and showing that sometimes knowing what someone feels like inside is not such a bad thing, when controlled well, as her only fault was to be shown to whole, too much, too soon..

Sometimes I dream about her, or at least, I think I do. She is a young woman standing and waiting for a love she never knew more than a few seconds, she is Ophelia who died knowing her love was perfect, not Juliet who whined her way into her own tragedy. She is the girl at the end of the pier waiting for a sailor dead to pox in a harbour far from her, the woman at the end of the bar that drinks too much and tells of how she once was beautifull, and she is the still face of a girl I keep sketching in any notebook or on any white peace of paper they hand to me.
Sometimes I give her cat's eyes, sometimes she smiles or lifts a sarcastic eyebrow, sometimes she is old, sometimes young, always, to my eyes, beautiful.
For she is also the woman one comes home to at the end of the day that has cooked your meal, she is my mother when she has frozen a portion of andive and mashed potatoes with vinegar because she knows it is my favourite food ever.
I see her in the fierceness of Sandra, who probably never reads this blog, but should know that her power lies in much more that her blue eyes and blond hair, but in the strength that draws her through things time and time again.
I see the second wife in the smile of Sabine, who nags herself about her weight and girth but never really sees the fact that she could weigh in at 300kg on a complementary scale and it could still not hide the fact that she has the almost annoying ability to turn a man's head by simply not noticing him form across the room. (I sometimes think the French girl's talent of making a man your slave by ignoring him for five minutes was wholy copied from Bienie, if not for a slight indiscrepancy in time).
"Wife" is to me somewhere in the character and faces of all people dear to me, male or female. All people have something of the lost child, of the feeling of "what did I do to get here without you?" and never really understanding who this "you" is supposed to be. Miranda and her constant search for understanding a world not meant to be understood reminds me of her innocense, Martin and his relentless energy towards those he cares about of her power of redemption, my brothers creativity of her willpower to stay sane in a world that rejected even the world you live in.

But I see her too in the faces of those unknown to me. The beauty of a person for a second completely unaware that he or she is being watched and who unselfconsiously tries to track the flight of a bird or the perfection match of a certain bartender's face and the face in my teenage fantasies. She is also in the kiss of my boyfriend or the way that he will tease me sometimes, even though I wish now that he would continue the poking and prodding into a bit more sweetness, as he used to do but doesn't anymore that much, but even this is her, somehow, for it shows a distance she must have learned to protect herself, I guess. I sometimes worry if these people see in me something of her as well, and I think they do or they would've moved on by now already, and somehow I think this small bit of insecurity is what I have gotten of her, the thing that keeps me not being punched everytime my mouth runs away from me, the general goodwillingness of my very evil nature, so to speak, but who's to say, I hope it's true. I also hope to remain seeing her often in my dreams, feeling an arm around me and looking in the face of whatever configuration my subconscious has chosen for that night and waking up smiling with the knowledge that still some good is there.

I don't blame Eve, I blame very few people, but the purity of form and function inherent in the tale of the three wifes of the first man should not be wasted on zealous idiots who would rather forget the first two. Lilith can take care of herself, and Eve was laid to rest in love and understanding of the world, but nameless one, I hope you have by now found a word to describe yourself. I know you left your sterile garden.. I see you too often not to believe you are in everything.

For she too, is still there. Somewhere around us all. And this is good, because somewhere she is also living out her life in peace just for the sheer joy in living. And I hope someone bought her a pair of really old diamond earrings once, and that she wears them proudly.