”The world is a beautiful place.” I am told far too often. We are different, you see. I’m sure the world is very beautiful to you. I’m sure you find joy in seeing nature take place and the seasons take over one another. However, we are very different. Darkness goes like this: Your glass is half full; his glass is half empty; my glass is shattered on the kitchen floor. My glass was never filled, my glass was thrown to the ground in a fit of rage by somebody else. It is beyond repair. You constantly define beauty as the way the leaves turn copper and the sky grows shadowed. These things only remind me how unlucky I am to be alive. I wish I was the leaves that are falling from trees. With the world dying around me, nothing is beautiful. As the seasons shift once more and things begin turning green, I realize that I will never be as bright as the light in the sky and I will never have as much potential as this flower does. With clovers growing faster than I am, nothing is beautiful. Perhaps it’s a selfish thought.
“the world is a beautiful place.” Well, that’s a matter of opinion. It’s a matter of whether or not you can see the beauty; or the sadness. I see death everywhere in the world. I have watched many things die. I’ve watched myself die, and the world is no longer beautiful.