Bruised sunrays filtered through the window panes. They landed silently on his sculptured face, and as I looked closely, the rays weren’t big and chunky, not like I thought they were. They were all so small, delicate, made up of a thousand pieces. They clung onto him, a source of life and health and beauty.
How do you define beauty? How beautiful can something be, without something to compare it to? It’s like grades. Anything below C is a fail, but you still want to know what grade you have if it is below a C. How badly you failed, and how close you got to passing.
Does it really matter? Beauty is beauty, fails are fails. Fails are beautiful, and Beauty can fail. I’m a Fail and therefore beautiful. That’s how I’ve always seen it anyway.
I’m introspective. I reflect upon myself. I reflect upon life.
I used to at least.
I’ve been thinking about him lately. That rainy morning in Arizona (how nostalgic does that sound?) everything started falling apart. Not the action packed night before, but the morning he stirred silently in his sleep, his head gently resting on my shoulder. He whispered my name slowly, but with amazing clarity. And then he turned away from me, taking half of the blanket and all of his warmth with him.
And it struck me violently. It was all wrong. It was all bloody terrible and wrong and stupid.
I resented myself afterwards for a minute. No, that’s a lie. I still resent myself now. Not as much for what we did, how we did it or anything but for how quickly my mind made itself up. There wasn’t a warning. I just sprung up, looked at my face in the mirror and left.
It comes back to grades again. If you got higher than a C, it’s all fine and well. You don’t care about the people who got below that. You don’t stop and think "What if I didn’t pass?" You don’t want to jinx it.
That was me in the past.
That’s the me I want to get back to.
I have a terrible habit of lying, dreaming and hoping that someday it will come true.
But rainbows don’t exist for girls like me.