Ugly Beauty, Doubtful Reality

I loved it most when the cold wind was hitting me hard, almost violently, in the saddest moment of my day, in the loneliest city in the world and no matter how much I hated the cold, it had somehow started to make sense to love it. I even kind of grew fond of the sensation of that combination of wind and sorrow and searched for it on uneventful days. It was as if neither was enough alone, but they had to always hit me together to make sure I heard them. Perhaps they knew how much I loved the realization of a failure or a mute disconnect with someone; I loved the clueless behind the default smile and difficult laughter. This was life to me – seeing the pretentious, deeply hidden in the nowhere, left-over of a beauty. I stared at people who stared at their phones, I stared at my phone – too much to see, too little to need; by the time I looked up, another sunset had gone, another day was forgotten without a story to tell, without anyone to tell a story to.

But beauty was too familiar and forced to seize. I was holding onto it tightly without giving it time to grow out of beauty. And by beauty I meant everything imperfect, ugly and what I believed to be real, soon reminding myself how irrelevant and doubtful reality was in the first place. Objects changed with our perceptions, memory was omitted and exaggerated, our own thoughts might have been someone else’s thoughts and who knew what else, so what was I doing as a writer trying to describe feelings that changed their states while I was typing, random and dear people who left before they had said hello or goodbye, painful moments we wanted to forget rather than relive in a book?

I had reached the safety of my blanket, but I was still cold in the middle of spring, completely disregarding the pointlessness of writing and everything else that had ugly beauty in it.

One thought on “Ugly Beauty, Doubtful Reality

  1. There’s comfort in the fact that physical pain washes emotional pain away, if only for a few seconds at a time. Cold is one thing; wet and cold is quite another. But none of it matters in the face of certain truths. When a single fact shatters everything and alienates you from everyone you trusted mere moments before. Moments of true realization often come with a price but we get past them. Those who don’t…well, we aren’t them. Nor are we the people we were before some new plot twist ripped our lives away like wet clothes. Yeah we can dry off and put on new clothes but it won’t change the How of how we came to be someone else’s object. Disposable. The ease with which we trusted before will never be as solid. Doubt becomes a permanent resident. A level of detachment (or, a wall, if you prefer) now exists and the contractors who put it up knew what they were doing and they had good materials…and they had the key to our hearts. To who we were. What so few people seem to get is that when those kinds of walls go up, yeah, there will be people in the future who will gain entry…but even they won’t know that much of what’s behind the wall is a cemetery. A war with with no monuments, only casualties.
    Q: When is a door not a door?
    A: When its locked.

    Once again, you’ve put words together in a manner which replays moments I usually pretend to have forgotten. If I’ll even admit they did.
    You’re a great writer, Gabriella.
    Talk soon.

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