At 1:14 a.m., I had the urge to create something beautiful. So here I am — 2 a.m., Wednesday — trying.
We all want to believe we can create beauty. We want to think that, for a self-contained moment, we can stop entropy and organize the world.
A few times, I’ve stumbled upon it — a glimpse between independent clauses, a hint amidst mindless humming. It’s intoxicating, and cruelly addicting.
But, more often, I’ve felt it around others who methodically navigate toward this beauty, finding it at will. These are singers who channel unadulterated human emotions through sound waves, or artists who connect colors and shapes to create an image better than reality.
As the world disintegrates around us, these people create a symbol of what it is like whole.
The past week, I have tried so hard to unlock beauty within these words. But it became solely about creation, so I failed — I failed to the point of sleepless frustration at what is now 3 a.m. on a work night.
I forgot that beauty does not come from us. Instead, it comes from the honesty with which we represent the world around us. That is why it’s beautiful when the Beatles sing about love, or when Van Gogh visualizes sadness. They don’t create love or sadness; they just narrate it, with unfettered bravery.
And that’s another thing I forgot: bravery. I’ve been filtering. I don’t know how to write about my world right now — about the things I think about each morning.
A few days ago, my girlfriend visited me. She stayed a day — it was great — but then we parted again, leaving behind an emptiness that was unsatisfyingly soothed by text messages and phone calls.
That’s my world — I miss her. I miss my parents. I miss my friends. Really miss them.
It’s a normal human emotion. But I don’t know how to make sense of it. It’s so raw, so chaotic. It doesn’t fit into a theme; there is no epiphany. I just miss them; I just want them back. And maybe one day — after we reunite — I’ll find the beauty in that.