So I don’t know who said it . . . I should, but I’m just a lowly first year, and I don’t.
But somebody did say it, before me, before now.
Beauty is harsh.
I like to paraphrase: Beautiful things don’t lack rough edges.
My apartment is beautiful. There are drawers open, shoes in every corner, and a towel over a dining room chair. My desk is scattered with things, and one of the drawers is haphazardly open. The flowers that Abby brought me last week to girl’s night are still on my ledge, in a plastic cup, leaning eagerly outwards toward my 60 watt lightbulb.
Beautiful is the way my clean clothes smell when I pull them over my head.
Beautiful is my apartment light beckoning me home.
Beautiful is my mom’s voice on the phone.
Beautiful is a familiar face in a crowded hallway.
Beautiful is finding your email eagerly perched in my inbox . . .
Beautiful is that shiver you get from the not-quite autumn breeze.
Beautiful is waiting four days to find something in your mailbox.
Beautiful is the rough feel of gravel on barefeet.
Beautiful is the scratch of sunburn.
Beautiful is knowing that where you are, email is unnecessary.
And I remember that beauty isn’t what we think, at all.