Musing on Beauty

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
See title.

Submitted: February 19, 2012

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Submitted: February 19, 2012

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What is beauty?

What is the difference between ugliness and beauty? What draws the line between normal and beautiful? When you watch Hollywood, beautiful seems to be something unattainable, with almond eyes and skinny bodies, tanned skin, looking me the painted version of the famous Aphrodite. Something ethereal, not really tangible.

Yet beauty can be in a breakdown. The loss of love between two people. So tragic as the flame finally sputters and dies. Its embers go out, it's dark, it's cold. Nothing is left. All is silence between the two pairs of eyes, each staring the other down across the table. And in the glares a communication occurs, both sides put up their flags at half-mast in honor of a long-lost friend, dead and gone from the world.

Maybe even more beautiful would be the pain one endures as they love another, but the feelings are not returned. You forget all that binds you to the world you once lived on, when you see those eyes looking into yours. You can feel your hands itching to reach up and touch his face, to coax that smile you've missed so much back upon his lips. But you know if you dare to reach up and touch that marble perfection, the man of stone will push it away. A pain you somehow are able to bear. And yet you love him for everything he has ever put you through, through all the toils and trials and tears. You confess how all the strings are cut from before, and you beg for a lifeline from him. And he will not- no, cannot throw you the line you so desperately need.

So you drift in the waters, deep, black and cold, pushed by the tide of your emotions until the sad current pulls you under. The last glimpse you see is of his face, those indigo eyes and the sad frown, the lips you so badly wanted to brush with your own whispering \"I'm sorry. I'm sorry.\". And the water comes over you, and you sink. As you are sinking, you struggle a little, afraid to be alone in these dark, unhappy waters of black ink. You look up, or at least the way you think is up. And you see no light. No indigo eyes. No marble visage. Just black, black everywhere. So you let go of the bubble of autonomy. You let go of the fear of the unknown. And you let yourself become wrapped in the cold, but welcoming arms of the dark.


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