I have a question. What is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen?
I think the question is simple. Then again, I don’t know if there is a way to quantify the best or most beautiful because beauty is relative. Then again, everything is relative. There are so many beautiful things that go unmentioned. There are beautiful things that go unnoticed. We take this for granted.
I don’t know what beauty looks like outside of my own influence. I’ve been to different places to see different things. I’ve never seen the sun go down over the French Riviera. I’ve been to Europe. I’ve seen pictures though. And some of the pictures I’ve seen are almost enough to be the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
Almost . . .
There are the great misconceptions about love and writing about love. It would be inaccurate to believe that one has to be in love in order to write about love. There is the misconception that one would have to experience heartbreak to be able to write about the absence of love.
Love is only love.
Love is us. Love is the way we think and breathe. The same as we are alive, love is alive. Anything we write or say about us is true. Even if what we say about our love is not true; our lies are still true because somewhere, deep down beneath the layers we hide behind and deep beneath our public image, and deeper beneath the roles we play in a back and forth chess match, and behind all of our push/pull mentalities, behind the nonsense and the make-believe, somewhere in there is a dream and a wish. Somewhere in us is a love we only hope could be true. Somewhere in us is the desire to be more.
There were mornings there in which I swore were nothing like any mornings I had ever seen before. The sea and the sunrise look different on the West coast as opposed to the East. The grayness of morning and the silvery mist atop the blue Pacific and the rumble sounds of the waves crashing in and then hissing after the collapse to return to sea was how I’d see the mornings. This, by the way, is how the Earth breathes. The ocean swells and the waves rise and fall like the chest of the body as it inhales and breathes out.
Give it a name and call this something. Call this a process, call it a journey or call this whatever you choose. Or, better yet, keep it simple and just call this life. And suddenly, here we are connected by a force that is greater than anything any of us could possibly understand. The world is nothing more than a story that continues to unfold. And be advised, the future is still unwritten. It always is and always will be.
I remember of course that love is equipped with all things, including imperfections. And so am I for that matter, perfectly imperfect, flawed and exceptional. I want to remember this before I move through the gateways of each and every day.
I want to remember so that I can remember me and keep myself centered and balanced in this unbalanced force we call our life. I want to remember this and the best of times. In fact, I want to remember all times because how else will I learn or know what to look for.
I do not believe that we have to conform to any shape or size. In fact, my version of beauty has curves. The idea which believes beauty is flawless is already flawed in itself. Beauty has flaws. This is what makes us beautiful. Beauty has no particular shape which to me, if asked, I will explain that my version of beautiful is not connected to you or someone else’s ideas.
No, not at all. In my case, my version of beauty is beautiful because of what this means to me.
There was a picture I saw of the beach this morning. The sun was coming up and the sky was all orange and purple. I thought to myself about the last time — when was it?
I couldn’t remember. I can’t remember the last time I felt my toes in the sand. It was San Diego, I think.
The morning was all hazy and gray at first. There were a length or rock piles that reached from the shoreline and went out several yards into the Pacific. The waves crashed here, which was perfect to create the sound effects of a shoreline daydream.
I never saw a sunrise like this before.
Maybe in the fall.
. . . It could be
Maybe when the autumn hits;
the scene at Columbus Circle
consumes the city with a sense of
something that no one else could understand
(unless they came from New York City)
It is raining now. The morning is even quieter than ever before. It is Monday, which would usually means something but there has been an alteration in our society. The change leads us to a strange kind of cabin sickness. This is not just me or you that are stuck inside. Everyone around us doing the same thing too.
I think about the times I would play sick and stay home from school. I remember wishing I could cut out and do this all the time. Meanwhile all the schools are closed now. There is no place to congregate and no place to experience life as we knew it. For now this new and temporary normal has put distance between us and so many others.
There is no real difference between now and then, except for you and me of course and the age of our existence. There is no more difference between us and then, except for this, us, still being the way we are, —still hoping to be the way we dream to be, which is young, always young, and always hopeful, eager to feel and eager to laugh.
I want to feel the way we do when the sun comes up and hits the garden at Central Park near 116th street on a summery morning, where, in the middle of nowhere in the city life, there was a scene, which could have been from a movie; —as if New York City became this totally different world because of a little garden with a slate-stone walk-around, lined be specimens of trees, the kind that seems royal and regal; enough to give someone the feel of storybook reasons to walk around and love someone so much that you’d though time could stand still.