2005-04-02
Aesthetics.

He was beautiful. A rare creature. But not with the sort of glamorous beauty celebrities exude as they strut down the red carpet.

A slender, sylph like, feminine beauty that you only read about. He'd make a perfect Peter Pan.

A huge frothy mop of butter yellow hair sat upon his head (ruined by an atrocious green trucker hat in the midst of it). Hair so wild and untamed.

His eyes, the clearest blue. Clear and vivid and frosty light as the sky on a midsummer's day.

His features, delicately carved of ivory.

A boy. Far from manhood, but hardly still a small boy. The perfect epitome of the awkwardness of growing up.

But he looked so graceful in his transition. So perfect. Age will destroy his looks, not chisel them into perfection. He's already perfect. He cannot be improved upon outwardly.

I mourn that that rare beauty must fly so soon. Beauty so fleeting.


All this in a few glances at the supermarket.

A stranger. A boy. So much younger than me. A sort of miniature Dorian.

Whom I will never play a Basil to (I'd never want to). I wonder though, will anyone? Does someone now? He seems the sort of creature whom would attract a Basil. Or a Lord Henry.

And he'll snap the hearts of little Sibyls.

Mischievous sylph.


The beauty. The beauty. In the tiniest, most irrelevant of places. Nothing important? But just passing by such beauty strikes me so hard...

before & & after