The clichéd bagatelle when you don't want to tell someone they're ugly. It's all in the eye of the beholder.... An enchanted being, this beholder. Like the magic mirror on the wall, reflecting nuances you've never acknowledged, magnifying the chasm between truth and belief. Whose truth, and whose belief?
They used to say seeing is believing. How very naive. Why is it then, your best memories are never visual? When you close your eyes and remember a moment, what do you see? A crooked smile? An orthodontists' mortgage payment? A lingering scent that awakes the nerve endings down your spine; a laugh that feels like mulled wine tracing a path to your stomach; an almost forgotten melody that makes your heart ache; the feeling of being smothered in a bear hug that can fix the world; ferociously knitted eyebrows, tiny pink tongue peeking out in sublime concentration; tightening nipples brought on by the rough caress a shivering monsoon wind; a taste of the smoky hint of single malt blended with the darkness of espresso on your tongue... every memory that I have, every moment, every image is painted in a watercolour of sensations. When I close my eyes and think of those I love best, I don't see then; I feel them.
Someone told me I had beautiful hands. It surprised me. Pretty nails, healthy and strong, but a man's hands. That's what I have. Is that true? or just what I believe? Interesting things, hands. I've enjoyed them on others; elegant ones, strong ones, artistic ones, menial ones, chubby, dimpled ones, gnarled ones....some have made me cringe; hideously tiny and dainty ones (I have trust issues!), unkempt ones with dirty nails, lovely hands with childishly bitten nails, baby soft hands on a man.... Perhaps my hands are beautiful. If someone believes it, is it not their reality? If it is reality, it must be true..... through my beholder's eyes. I see beauty now, where there was none before.
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