She had that something in her face. Or maybe it was her eyes, I don't know. But when I looked at her, I saw a beautiful soul. Not in the sense of perfection, or symmetry. In the sense of randomness, of uncertainty, of brightness. And in her imperfect eyes and messed up hairs, my world was weaved.
I could go on and on, but the words maybe fall short to tell her essence. She isn't a paint drawn carefully, curve by curve and color by color. She is a splash of all the colors and all the curves, and in one splash the beauty is created. In careful sketching beauty is manufactured. And that splash has colored my gaunt white soul with all the musics and melodies of the universe. Now I understand why painters paint, why dancers dance and why writers write. That is their prayers for more colors and more curves.
I fail with words, but only if I were adept in channeling my heart's voice, I would look into her eyes and make her understand what she does to me. I will tell her a story maybe. Or a poem. I will sing maybe. I will let her know that she matters. more than the universe, she matters. More than the creators and the ancestors and anything that matters, she matters. I wouldn't expect her voice, nor I would expect her eyes in mine again, but if she does for one more second she would know. She would gasp. She wouldn't have seen the truth before.
There must be something more to life than just what is seen. And I think about this when I see her.
I could go on and on, but the words maybe fall short to tell her essence. She isn't a paint drawn carefully, curve by curve and color by color. She is a splash of all the colors and all the curves, and in one splash the beauty is created. In careful sketching beauty is manufactured. And that splash has colored my gaunt white soul with all the musics and melodies of the universe. Now I understand why painters paint, why dancers dance and why writers write. That is their prayers for more colors and more curves.
I fail with words, but only if I were adept in channeling my heart's voice, I would look into her eyes and make her understand what she does to me. I will tell her a story maybe. Or a poem. I will sing maybe. I will let her know that she matters. more than the universe, she matters. More than the creators and the ancestors and anything that matters, she matters. I wouldn't expect her voice, nor I would expect her eyes in mine again, but if she does for one more second she would know. She would gasp. She wouldn't have seen the truth before.
There must be something more to life than just what is seen. And I think about this when I see her.
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