Is it really impossible to understand?

I hate the bubbles in champagne, I hate the gap between the bed and the wall. I would never hang a picture in a frame too large for it, because the white strip made of nothingness, even if only as thick at a hair, would ruin the picture utterly.

And if you wouldn't either - if it would seem wrong to you, too - then why would you love a girl with so many odd angles? Why would you love yourself, with all of your flaws - your gawky arms, your bony fingers, legs too long for your torso - if you could be something different?

Something more whole?

Maybe you still don't understand. Paintings are not human bodies, you might say.

Of course they aren't. They matter much less. We only hang paintings on walls, and we may take them down if we choose. We can control the sort of house we live in, whether that choice is a mansion filled with art or a hole in the ground. We can control what sort of things we see and hear, and never leave that house if we wish to stay within it. But I thought we could never really control ourselves, because of what odd-looking, misshaped creatures we humans are. I thought that though we could shape the world around us as we desired, our very bodies would elude us and taunt us with their ugliness, their shape.

I have proven myself wrong.

A painter spends hours making sure each line, each brushstroke, fits his vision perfectly. Don't you think I spent hours making what I saw in my mind's eye into what I could hold in my hands? Each cut was perfect. I did not make a single rash movement: I moved as slowly as a glacier, and made my hands as sure as a surgeon's. To make an incision even half a centimeter off the mark would ruin the entire thing, a regrettable waste.

And in the end, what did I create? I created works of art more beautiful than I thought a mortal could make; and I created girls more beautiful than any I will see walking through streets, swimming in water, rolling down hills.

I created perfection; I dare you now to challenge what I have done.

(author's note/disclaimer: although this story is vague enough, I'd like to mention that the characters in Mouryou no Hako don't belong to me (of course). Also, I'd like to mention that I don't agree with this point of view in the slightest, and have written from it only for the sake of fiction.)