Aliza Razell. imbue [ii]. 2015.

Was this what happened when an artist loved the a-ha song too much, or read too much about Harold and his purple crayon? Was she a witch? No, this was just testimony to clear intentions.

Previously, the longing was there, but the path murky. No guys knew how to be what she wanted. Worse, she didn't even know how to tell them. She'd trusted that everything would eventually fall into place. There'd be a lot of kismet and serendipity and all that going on.

But after years of delays and mistakes, Gina decided that kismet/serendipity/et al. could use some help.

Creating a man was hardly a new concept. In some religions, it was one of God's very first acts. Since then, some had attempted to sculpt their own ideas of perfection from clay, cloth, rock, metal. These efforts fell short. They'd crumble under pressure or melt under heat. They were too hard and rough or too soft and yielding. They lacked intelligence and charm.

Gina, skilled with inks and watercolors, stretched a long piece of paper across the floor, an idea half-formed in her mind but growing more and more defined. She drew and she painted, thinking not of her failed relationships of the past but on something she never had—to be honest, something she never thought was possible to have. She felt love in every brush stroke, accompanied by feelings of ease, comfort, happiness, and trust.

She left her creation purposefully unfinished. That left room for surprises. All the essentials were there. The drawn man twitched on the paper as Gina breathed life over him and stroked his paper arms. Then, he pressed himself off the paper, and she held his wrists, helping him to his feet. His legs quivered, being upright for the first time, but his smile didn't falter. Gina beamed, watching color seep into his skin and his shape taking form. All this magic, right before her eyes. She couldn't wait to see what happened next.