you write furiously, hands racing though they are achingly red and clouded with smudges of dark ink, your fingers begin pounding rhythmically on the keyboard. this tempo, a ritual. you have it here, an unwavering revelation of passion, a beautiful thing. and you have it here, yes you do. you do. 

you tell yourself this is art. yes, this, what you are doing, is art. art goddamit art. you will make something brilliant, something so beautiful, because beauty was what you lived for.

you know beauty is wondrous, you know beauty is all. pretty isn’t necessarily beauty, for beauty is transcendent. wrinkle, pimple, and wart - why, one can be beautiful with those plastered across their face. 

it was beauty that saved you, saved you when you fell into a dark hole one day during your teens. you discovered dark things in the world, discovered the meaning of rape and coitus, discovered that people hurt each other more badly than you thought,  discovered that mummy and daddy were mortal beings; imperfect. yes they screamed too much, hurt you and each other too much, sometimes on a blackened inside, sometimes on a purpling outside. and god did you cry at least three times a week in bed at that time. god did you cry to god. you lost faith in him because you thought he was never listening to your please and wishes. in your last wish you asked him to kill you then and there on your bed, you sprawled out your arms to form the shape of a cross. but he left you there, snotty faced and red-nosed. although you lost your faith, you still ask him to kill you from time to time.