She had grown up among people who spoke of beauty as preference — a leaning, a liking, a private pleasure. But whenever she tried to listen that way, something went wrong. The world flattened. Forms lost their pull.
One evening, standing in an abandoned transit hall, she felt it again. The ceiling was cracked, the lights uneven, the air humming with distant machinery. No one would have called it beautiful.
Yet the space held her.
Not because she liked it — she didn’t — but because everything in it seemed to face the same direction. The echoes, the long sight-lines, the slow drip of water somewhere behind the walls. Nothing competed. Nothing demanded.
She realised then that beauty was not something she felt toward the world.
It was something the world did when it aligned her attention without asking.
No comments:
Post a Comment