On Beauty II

Does being beautiful matter? Does it, really? Does a butterfly know it is beautiful? Does a new-born baby know it’s beautiful? Does a wildflower, does a rose? No. No, of course not. These things don’t know, or care if they are beautiful or not. They just exist, and are beautiful in doing so.

And were there no mirrors to look in, would we know that we were beautiful? Does a hermit living alone on some life-forsaken, sea-swept island know that he is beautiful? Would being beautiful make him happier, somehow? How could it make him happier than the beauty of the iron-green sea whipped wild by the wind, or the grace of terns and gulls slicing currents of air with their scythe-like wings? 

The moon knows not that it is beautiful, but each night a million eyes lift up to gaze upon its silver light, and not one heart is left unmoved by its singular beauty.  And not one of those eyes, nor the faces they are set in, could ever hope to rival such beauty, though in our vanity we imagine that they might. We are enamoured by beauty, we are slaves to the aesthetic. We endeavour to harness it, become it, possess it. We perceive beauty in others, in nature, and shame ourselves that we cannot equal it. We should desist in our futile quest. Admit our ugliness. And be content with merely experiencing beauty, with creating it. 

Because painting a picture is more worthwhile than painting make-up on your face. Because gazing at the stars is better for your soul than rhinoplasty. 

Because when you're old you'll be ugly anyway, and on your deathbed you won't think about how beautiful you were or weren't. You'll be thinking of the way the light played off the water in the harbour that night you first kissed your first love. And how beautiful it was.