Effortless

beauty is fluid. you'll never find a measuring cup adequate for its contents. So let's assume everything has the potential for beauty, no matter how skewed it may seem. beauty isn't a person, an object or even a place. it is what it is. something may not always be beautiful, but in a fleeting fragmentary moment it might dazzle you into a stunned silence. it may push you into a state between euphoria and complete awe. all ego is lost to the transitory id.

she is beautiful. on first glance she seems quite ordinary, on the second or third you can expect the same conclusion. but as you sit with her, you notice the delicate contour of her bones. some might call her frail. you however notice how each limb flows onto the next to create a sense of emaciated poetry. you let your eyes indulge in her, a form that would rival Rilke.

she's wearing a dress. far from the mainstream fashion, for no other reason than to wear it. she sits unconventionally, in a manner you wouldn't dare with a dress that length. and yet she's perfectly at ease, pen in hand listening to the lecture. there's a silent grace in her form that you've never encountered before. an effortless way of being that seems wholly without pretention. her hair falls about her shoulders creating a dark cloak around her. no product, no accessories. she runs a tired hand through it, it stays in it's messed state and yet she is beautiful.

her lips are bright red and yet her skin is not porcelain. she wears no other make-up although she isn't flawless. there's an internal self-comfort that radiates through her body. like the pure embodiment of Rube Goldberg's intentions, she has a rhythm all her own.

i sit next to her, hair heavy with product, teased, combed, dried and sprayed. i wear my mask: napolean foundation number 3, mocha eye shadow, revlon eyeliner, limited edition raven mascara, multi-toned bronzer, plum lipstick and green apple scented gloss. i play with the sleeves of my coat, pulling and adjusting. overly conscious of my appearance. it's been raining, i don't feel presentable. but beauty is not found in perfection, i tell myself. again my eyes fall on her.

there's no desire behind the gaze, no need to feel the tendrils of her hair or the contours of her body. just a silent appreciation of all that she seems. superficial maybe, but it's her essence of being i envy.

tossing her head back she slides low into her chair. the strap of her dress falls from a delicate shoulder, her hair's ruffled and as i notice this i feel her eyes on me.

'I'll never get this.' she sighs, suppressing a yawn.

'Neither.'