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12:38 AM
I don't think I'm beautiful, but my therapist says I am. He says that everyone is beautiful in their own way, and that people in this day and age need to learn to accept that, but that's where I disagree with him. I believe that people themselves are not beautiful, but that everyone has beautiful moments. People are beautiful when they're nice and don't ask for anything in return. People are beautiful when they get lost in books or writing, or when their eyes light up when they're passionate about something. People are the most beautiful, though, when they cry—when they weep so hard that they could drown the streets in melancholy and salt water.
Today, I learned that Davis is the most beautiful person I had ever seen in my entire life. I showed up late to therapy because my body had an argument—my stomach told my head that it needed to be fed, but my head told my stomach that it needed to fuck off. My fingers had just wrapped around the door handle when I felt myself getting pushed to the ground, because someone had burst through the door and that person was Davis. He didn't help me up. I don't even think he stopped to look at me, but boy, did I look at him. His eyes were dark and foggy and filled with enough tears to end a drought, and every emotion he was feeling hit me like a freight train. I stared at the back of his head while he ran and ran and ran until he collapsed next to an old pickup truck.
My therapist asked me why I was late. I told him I had to stop and appreciate something beautiful.
