The essence of beauty.
The essentially beautiful.
The inner workings of a beautiful mind.
Sometimes I find myself searching for the right things to say because I don’t believe in wasting words. For me its like spilling purpose.
The daily waste of diction is bountiful.
Yet I find myself at a loss in the sludge of it all.
Trudging through the filth of language to find the beauty.
It is essential to me.
I wonder about the necessity of my creative expression if no one hears it. Or reads it.
If no one knows it exists, does it make it any more or less real?
Well, the answer to that is yes.
It is not so much a question as it is a prompt.
If I take the time to conjure it with my mind, its real.
It may blossom like a flower, or fester like an infected wound.
Strange comparisons, I know, but it is all about the feeling.
And there is beauty to be found in either case.
Feeling is part of the essence of beauty.
The gentle stirring of the soul, a calling or pull forward.
Involuntary steps. Unconscious movement.
Like a poem. It is purposeful but it is the essence.
Perhaps that should always be the true nature of beauty
To no just be an aspect but a movement
We can wander around in the abstract but the concrete
Stops us in our tracts, definitively
Forces us to face answers instead of muddling through for the truth
And serves as ground for us to walk on
We must do ourselves the favor of pursuing a path
It is too easy to get lost in this world,
and never find oneself