When one wishes to debate about such a topic, one must always return to the simplest of questions regarding it, which, in this case, also seems to be the hardest.
What is Beauty?
Is it a particular brand of appearance? Or is it merely something that is pleasing to the eye?
Is it something that is pleasing to a certain group of persons, or is it something that describes anything that anyone finds especially pleasing?
In the landscape where I paint my own world, there is no absolute beauty.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder; as the famous saying goes, and I, for one, full-heartedly agree.
Beauty is in what one sees in the world, and what one sees might not be what others see in its stead.
Perhaps I find the clouds beautiful because I see faces and brush-strokes in them, and maybe you find the trees beautiful because you see life and warmth and home in them.
Maybe I don’t find the rivers beautiful, because all I see is running water and fish that aren’t the colourful creatures we made them out to be in our childhood, but perhaps you find the rivers beautiful because you see flashes of sunlight and the fish that dart from invisibility to visibility.
And maybe I find beauty in pain, and silence.
And just maybe, you find it in happiness and love.
The most human machine I own?
Well, not really mine, seeing as its my dad’s twenty-two year old, second-hand car. (Yes, it’s older than I am)
It’s gorgeous, honestly, with paint that’s a shade darker than the sky on a sunny day, and a wonderful four-ring on the front and back (yes, it’s an Audi, yes, it’s old, and yes, it’s a right pain in the behind).
It’s got a few quirks, a real attitude problem, and when you compare it to any car that’s new, it’s ridiculously expensive to maintain. When you think about it, it just might be that continentals aren’t made for tropical weather, and therefore, well … that’s rather self-explanatory, yes?
A/N: I made this blog thinking I could hide myself … weird, I know … but I’ve ended up spilling so much more than I ever thought possible … including this little piece in bold. Well, anyway, please leave a comment or a like (If you want to, and if you did), they make my day (honest) and … well, thanks for reading! ~ dx0330
I’m please with this line;
Far too pleased, to be truthful,
But it keeps me light.
Not a word often used around me,
But always used with you.
You are a rock in
the midst of gravel; strong, firm,
No wind will make you stray.
I’m pleased with this line;
and I’m sure that I’ll always be
pleased to watch you climb.
I wish you only the best,
my most beloved brother,
as I take my leave at last.
You have taught me all
that I ever need know.
“I’ve been looking for you,”
A smirk dances on my lips, and I swirl the remnants of my coffee around the bottom of my mug before taking another sip of the bitter liquid. “Looking for me?” the hulking man nods shortly, and I swallow the simultaneous urge to both laugh and run screaming from the small café. “Well, you’ve found me,” I look up to meet piercing blue eyes, and I watch as his pupils dilate, his breathing grow noisier and his fingers tighten on his arms.
“Have I really?” his words hit something in me, but I shrug the sensation off. “Were you supposed to?” he seems almost confused by the question, and I the smirk on my lips widens until I feel as though my face is going to snap into two. “Were you supposed to find me,” I clarified, taking another sip of coffee that was cooling down too quickly for my liking.
“I don’t know,” for the first time since I’d seen this particular stranger, he looked uncertain. I rolled my eyes at his answer, maintaining the façade I’d dug up for him. I waited a few more minutes in perfect silence; other patrons bustling around us and filling the air with meaningless chatter and noise as I waited for him to speak.
Or was he waiting for me to speak? In the end, it didn’t matter to me either way. I stood up calmly, setting the porcelain mug on the table before getting off my seat and tossing a generous tip onto the table.
“Then find me when you do.”
I’d want to start my journey in Europe, perhaps even in Spain or in Switzerland if the stories are anything to go by.
I think it’d be irritating to drive for so long in the traffic, so I think I’d rather walk. I’d walk as far as I can, or perhaps as far as I want to, before hopping on a bus or a train.
I’d like to go everywhere in Europe, or at least as close to ‘everywhere’ as I can get.
I’d want to visit Germany after their football victory, taste Italy and fall in love with France.
Does it matter what I write? As long as I think it’s alright, no.
Does it matter where I write? Hell yes.
I write best in the quiet; that’s where I come out of the façade I put up, and where the deep, dirty secrets come out. That’s when I write to relieve the weight in my chest, when I need to find something to live for, and when I have no more tears left to cry.
I can’t write in the noise. I’ve tried for years, to write in the babble of a classroom, and it’s never worked. Ideas flit through my head at a hundred kilometres an hour, changing every time I latch onto a different strand of conversation.
A splash of bitter chocolate, (Like your irritable countenance on Monday mornings)
Over smooth, silky vanilla cream and tangy lime sorbet, (Meeting people who are like you, and those who clash violently with you)
A sprinkle of crumbled chocolate and salt, (Politeness for the ones you hold close, and laughter and tears for the ones you hold dear)
And a dash of sweet strawberries to offset everything. (Slow sweetness that lurks under even the darkest of your glares)
A/N: Eh … I just kind of ran with this idea … Please leave a comment telling me what you think about it, and if it made any sense