“Everything has its beauty, but not everyone sees it.”
Confucius
I’ve been asked to ponder the idea of hidden beauty. Here’s some of what crossed my mind.
Her hidden rebellion, shining from within. Her love for life and music in the true senses of the word. Her awkwardness, intelligence, true kindness, and passion. This carefully-hidden beauty lies in her words and thoughts, and I am filled with the true joy of a happy kid whenever it shines in my face…
A silent compartment set above our heads. Some inscriptions contrast the light color of the marble; a name, a couple of dates, a picture, and a verse that was selected from half a dozen available ones, and that we thought represented him best. A burnt candle and a dead flower have been waiting since the last visit, and an old lady at the end of the dusty path that contains tens of similar resting places seems to have been watering her son’s plants and waiting for something to happen since forever. I drag the small steps we found there so my mother can reach up and touch the stone. I move my eyes between his picture and the tens of used matchsticks around us, and I wonder what I should do. I don’t want to promise ‘him’ the same things I always do when I find myself speechless there. It feels more stupid each time, yet it makes me feel a bit better. I look around me and see plants and flowers and silent people staring at their own lost ones. Even butterflies and happy singing birds come here. It truly is a resting place, but for the living. The hidden beauty of the silence, the comfort of promises made to dead ears, the recollection of memories and the telling of old and new stories. Dead flowers are replaced, candles lit, and incense burnt, and I start to see that these things are done for the sake of the living, not the dead. The randomness and stupidity of life is only surpassed by the meaninglessness of death, and this is the only place that so calmly and beautifully presents both to you. The dead are long gone, and the stupid living ones hang on to their remains for a fake sense of meaning, secretly wishing that soon they will be the ones sleeping, and someone else with burdens and memories will be lighting candles for them…
Whether you reach a desired result or not, whether you succeed or horribly fail, work is the most beautiful deed there is. Yes, work. No matter how old and how clichéd that sounds, work holds the most beautiful of pictures in its harsh and tiresome pages. It is work that makes me what I am, and it is work that I choose to do, and through which I change myself and things around me. The centuries of hard work hold with them the secrets of our current knowledge and strength, and the hidden beauty of the journey eventually surfaces and masks the tears and sweat…
Another friend, another character, and, most importantly, another artist in the making has entered my life. Lots of shades colour her character, but perhaps the most beautiful are the ones she tries to hide. Her eyes scream with who she is and what she turned out to be, no matter how much she tries to hide it. The hidden beauty is that of her tired anger and sadness that she never lets out or shares, while making sure the people around her see how beautiful their lives are. How ironic that an artistic person like her, one who tries wherever she goes to capture beauty in the things no one notices, would find it hard to discuss such a topic. I guess all she had to do to be inspired was to see and feel what we see and feel when we catch her staring into the distance, so occupied with something, and with the saddest, most serious, and most beautiful look that anyone can manage to draw on his or her face, with no effort whatsoever…
Filed under: Arts, Life, Miscellaneous, Personal Experiences, Philosophy, Thoughts , Beauty, Thoughts
Recent Comments