The Life and Death of Beauty

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I feel like my life is pulling me by the wrist, urging me on to nothing I want.
I've let the great world spin, I'm letting it spin right now, there's nothing stopping it.
In life. . . In mine, in yours, in the clerks at the store, in the bus drivers, in the homeless mans walking down Detroit. . . In life, Beauty is created. Indescribable Beauty. Beauty that grabs us by the face and swallows us whole. Beauty that leaves us stranded and wondering what comes next. Beauty that takes us as its own and carves us and shapes us into something new. Beauty that only knows the boundary of going above and beyond any boundaries. Beauty that makes us cry, Beauty that makes us smile, Beauty that leaves us amazed with every action of anything in every second in every day of our life.
It blooms from inside us, rapid and slow. You're scared the entire time, and then you finally reach a point where it is the most beautiful. You're grateful for every day you're given, you appreciate the little things, you feel everything differently than before and everything feels better. You sing about it, you write about it, you dream about it, you talk about it, you express it, you feel it, you run with it.
And that Beauty dies. When it first starts to fade, you get angry. Angry that something so great isn't a constant. Of course it wouldn't be, why would it? That's what we all think.
Then it's on its deathbed. Everything's bittersweet. Tubes going in and out of this Beauty, the noises and sounds of different toned beeps, all questions, can we save this Beauty? If we add this tube or take this tube away, is it possible for this Beauty to open its eyes? To open them and take in everything? You sit next to it on its deathbed, holding its hand, crying, thinking of what would happen if this Beauty survives. Because this makes you realize you didn't know how to handle it, you never knew what to do with it in the first place. You were always lost trying to figure it out, but without that aspect of wonder, you feel more lost. You think, if this Beauty would just open its eyes and start breathing on its own again, everything would get better. Beauty will never be lost again, because you get it.
But you're scared. Beauty isn't beautiful anymore. What you knew is now alien to the present. You think of Beauty and your heart gets sore, your eyes sting with tears, you feel your toes curl with frustration and regret. You regret ever knowing this Beauty because it's only brought you to the end; A deathbed, where happiness, hope, and trust grabs a hold of each other for dear life, and jumps just outside your very window, just for you to see.
And you're left with nothing.
Beauty comes in and controls you and rules you and touches you and calms you, and then one day, after everything. . . After everything, Beauty is gone, Beauty is gone, Beauty is gone.
Beauty passes.
You're at Beauty's funeral, finally, your last place to go before you let go. Finally. You're looking down and you can see everything, something only you can see, something that only you will ever understand. You touch the dead skin of Beauty, and that's exactly how it feels: Dead. Everything that you and Beauty had ever had is now gone and anything forced between you feels forced, feels dead, feels sad and empty and. . . Pathetic.
A sour so-long kiss goodbye, and then Beauty is six feet under cold, wintry grounds.
And you hate beauty now, for doing this to you. For going as easily and coincidentally as it came. For bringing you the best thing you've ever had and then burnt it alive, left right after, no more.
The birth and death of Beauty and trust is the same. There is no exact beginning or end, but I had been given the best gift I had ever had, the most beautiful. And now it is gone, forever gone, six feet under, past the snow, past the dirt, past the wood, far past me. Life has spun it into my life so perfectly and now all that I can do is let it drag me and spin around until I get the next beautiful thing.
And we only keep on learning, don't we?
Rest in peace, Beauty, for the birth and death of you and I was awfully. . . Bittersweet, still stinging.





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