I’d write you a song, but I never learned to sing; I don’t have the nerve for poems anymore, my drawing sucks, paint always runs together. My hands are rarely gentle, but it doesn’t matter much I suppose.
At the end, they’re just different pretty wrappers for as much blood as you can spill. As much pain as you can bear to learn from, hold, shape, and form. Beauty is not graceful and glittering, beauty is not well-formed lips and correct proportions and colors that dance in the sunlight. Beauty is the heartache remembered in a kind smile, beauty is suffering tempered into empathy and expressed. Not, as one would hope, to salve one’s own hurts; these things are lost to time, crystallized in an unalterable past
No, expressed for the curious and circular purpose to prevent such things from happening again. A refusal, a rebuttal, too-little too-late to save us, but maybe enough to spare another.
Look: as the stranger stops and extends a hand, for no gain to theirself; as the other looks, uncertain, unable to find a reason. The reason is always there, and it will lead you deep into the heart of things, into the answers that reveal the true shape of things, and not only their appearance.
It hurts to be alone, and helping another does not change the sleepless nights spent waiting for the mirror of that helping hand, extended for you. It is easy to instead claim it as owed, to turn harsh and embittered at having your own hopes for aid defeated.
And there is beauty there too, because it hurts. Because there is an honesty to being hurt, an understanding to inevitable in human nature to lashing out in pain. It means something, it is something to be overcome, it is a cruelty and the creation of more pain and yet also a vision of another part of the truth.
Sometimes, it’s not enough. There’s no bright side, and nothing helps. Like black holes we collapse under the weight of ourselves and devour the night sky.
So twinkle, twinkle little star.
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