User:Has Matt?

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{| align="center" cellspacing="12" width="80%" style="text-align: left; background:#F5F5F5; border:1px solid #ABB;"
 
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|'''<big>The Most Beautiful Things in the World</big>
 
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And she just sits there. The same way all the other people sit, but she does it differently. It seems like she has a purpose for sitting that way, filling the notebook lines with her casually perfect script - yet neither of us knows what purpose that is.
 
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Everything she does has a purpose, and she doesn’t realize it. Everything she does is beautiful, and she doesn’t realize it. In other words, she’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever known.
 
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Her head is facing downward, and I can see the roof of her neck. Her playfully dangling hair covers most of her face, teasing and mocking me. From what I can see of her eyes, she remains deeply focused on the contents of her page. For now, she doesn’t notice me. Her feet kick innocently back and forth in the rhythm of a schoolyard intellectual. It is a simple beauty that cannot be duplicated.
 
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I turn my gaze to her busy hands, the polished marble hands of a warm-blooded statue. I get this feeling, the kind that suddenly makes me aware of the location of my lower stomach. I am glad she doesn’t know what I have just felt, but a few seconds later I realize how stupid this is and I wish she did know.
 
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Her hands are directly connected to her brain. Nothing they do is done without the mind’s approval, and everything they do is done with the violent, passionate precision of a concert violinist. She doesn’t play the violin, or any other instrument, but she doesn’t need to. Her hands are her instrument, and her words are her music.
 
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If I were to ask anyone else in the room if they thought she was beautiful, most would say no. Preconceived notions are too powerful, too entrenched, and too convenient. When we teach people the definition of beauty, we’re using the wrong dictionary. Beauty should not have such a narrow and arbitrary definition, if any definition at all. Sometimes, beauty is independent of any categorical standard. Sometimes, beauty just is.
 
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These were the thoughts going through my head, and I really wished they could fly out of my head and go through hers as well. But I don’t think she ever concerns herself with such things. I almost cried when the inevitable thought came around, flying to the front lines of my internal conflict: If I were to ask her if she was beautiful, she would say no.
 
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The bell rings, and she closes her book. She looks up and notices for the first time that I am looking at her. I almost jerk my head away, but something keeps it fixed there, our vulnerable eyes finally meeting.
 
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She says something to me, and I say something to her. There is no time to say anything of substance, so these words don’t matter. I know that I will spend the rest of the class ignoring the teacher, ignoring everyone around me, as I try to come up with something meaningful to say after the bell rings again, when my sentences will be set free.
 
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By the time class has ended and everyone has left, I have conjured the perfect string of words to unleash upon her. She will be helpless to resist it; she will not remember how to say no. My moment has finally arrived, and I turn around to see what lies ahead for me.
 
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And she just sits there. Her notebook is again open, this time to a different page from a different class. The subtle movements of her arm suggest she is ready to close it and move on, but something keeps her there, as if she has become entranced by her own words.
 
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It doesn’t occur to me that she could be waiting for me to walk over a few feet and start a conversation. I’m too busy drowning in her cascade of hair to realize this possibility.
 
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Then there comes the stinging worry that she might catch me looking again. So I pretend to look up at the clock and I immediately leave the room and her, knowing I am acting against myself in the process. I try my hardest not to look back, and somehow succeed. I feel terrible.
 
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I walk further down the hallways and merge with the rumbling crowd. I barely make it to my next class, where there sits next to me another girl with the same posture, the same handwriting, the same statue hands. She stealthily glances over in my direction a few times, thinking I am not aware. She says something to me, and I say something back. Her cosmic eyes reflect the florescent lights in the ceiling. She smiles at me, and I smile back.
 
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But she knows she is beautiful, and so she is not.
 
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'''
 
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<center>You're the http://www.homestarrunner.com/sbsite/counter.gif th biggest moron, ever.</center>
 

Revision as of 18:04, 8 November 2009

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