Beauty and What it Means to Me

I have been told that I have the inherent ability to see the beauty in things.  I can look at a person and know that somewhere within is a kind but timid creature peeking through the eyes of the strong mask they have created in their own defense.  I can look at the weakness in the petals of a flower and know that they are beautiful to trick the insects into working for them not because the color matches their eyes.  I can see the way the water looks painted on while it rushes past me, misting my face and hands.  I can see all this beauty around me and though I know there is a lot residing within me, it alludes me.

For this reason I often feel like creating something.  I write down the stories I tell myself in my head hoping they touch others as they stroke my own creativity to life.  I sketch and paint things the way that I see them within me while making sure to stay true to the things they show the world.  The one thing I regret is that as I attempt to put these things to paper, to share them with others, the beauty is often lost.

Inside my head is where the images and scenes shine brightest; pure.  The pale replicas I put out into the world worry me because they show only bits and pieces of the purity they have shown to me.  How can I weave beautiful truths if they are such transparent lies?

How do I make something beautiful when I can’t build it up but am constantly tearing it down?

How do I improve?

How do I move forward?

All I have is faith that those tiny sparks against the dull background are enough for someone else to recognize what is there.  I can hope that others who hold this gift in their hearts can also see what is there.  I can look for kindred spirits and call out to them, soundlessly.

Like an inaudible Pied Piper.  The same that calls to me now.

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