Beauty is rebellious… An essence within the march of surly youthful endeavors to always buck the establishment. Beauty usurps beauty in a multispectral uprising against the status quo. It seeks the foreground of awareness, and the ever-expanding symmetry behind which banality and inattention frets.
Beauty is the catalyst of carefully culled confusion – the “aha moment” of clarity, where a single deep blue river inhales and braids exhaustively into scintillating rivulets. It is the sound of swooping translucent wings, slicing contrails through sunlight above the alpine tree line – dancing curves bent delicately across stark still tundra.
Beauty is the viscous glaze of realization settling over the jagged latticework of our city’s brick and mortar… the orange spark from the knap of the sculptor’s chisel. It is the song of a dove at dawn intermingled with that of an owl at dusk.
Beauty is the intricately folded fingers of my grandfather praying to something he cannot see, that he can hardly believe, and diligently hope.
Beauty longs with endless desperation to be described by an artist who herself has been bested by the glory of her own rebellious desire to endlessly create anew.
To be beautiful is to be an aesthetic nihilist – to replace all that has ever been beautiful with all that is beautiful now in a search for all that is beautiful next.