Beauty is subjective; I don’t find any necessity to debate it either. It is quite instinctive and something one possesses in abundance. What is beauty to you, my friend? Someone enchanting with an ecstatic smile, sitting next to an exquisite painting by some flamboyant artist, talking to a crowd of impatient beholders with an exuberant voice?
Maybe you would be euphoric much to have had another bite at the cherry to witness such a delightful scene, but this fills the crack of my wailing soul with dusts of tribulations and I think to myself, how will I ever be able to love again if I seek beauty in the shimmer of snow fairies and not appreciate the wisdom of the cursed imp.
Don’t labor under the seductive misapprehension that I fancy glittering fairies any less, but they don’t quench my parching, inquisitive mind, the way regular people with gentle words do.
I love trembling, not so darling to hear voices who quote stories of wars and poems about broken hearts. I feel myself drawn towards skeptical minds that doubt the very existence of god, but flaunt to have seen gnomes stealing fresh berries from their master’s yards.
It’s more amusing to hear people read poems about scandalous courtships rather than being a spectator, because handsome words are more arousing than witnessing sculpted bodies in love.
It’s beautiful to see people being passionate about the trivial things, the comfort of touching a new cardigan or the smell of fresh paint. It’s equally rousing to hear people being impassioned with the history of spices or how they relished the book on Albert Einstein.
I rejoice watching people as porters of legends and lost folklore and not just heavenly-scented living photographs because the world was never supposed to be just beautiful but equally horrendous and genuine.
So sweet someone, you are more than your embellished facade and your recent rendezvous. You are a colossal substance of ambiguity and enormous possibilities. Your words are more powerful than your insecure smile.

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