My Heart Is An Empty Room

I was never really into abstract modern art. There was always something about it that I found to be presumptuous, snide. Like it was laughing at me for not understanding that there was nothing to be understood.

I couldn’t imagine hanging something like that on my wall and looking at it every day. I much prefer mirrors. The idea of looking at something that elicits mild disgust and no sense of aesthetic satisfaction all the time sounds dreadfully tedious. Although, I wonder if after a while I would “get it.” And by “it” I mean that subtle stir in my soul that is supposed to happen when you look at art. I’m slightly frightened by the idea of slowly growing familiar with something that I don’t particularly like. I’m afraid that from familiarity would grow fondness. And with fondness, I would see deeper into the painting, beyond the surface where the color lies, and behind all of that, where I start to feel something.

It’s the same with people sometimes. I’m terrified of what lies behind all these passing faces. Not because I’m terrified of people, but when beauty becomes routine – then what happens? When the rouse of beauty slips away, what is left to hold onto? How do you foster fondness for someone you were once in love with – without feeling wronged that the love has started to slip away? How do you see beyond the pretty face – and what if nothing’s there. What if a person without beauty just becomes anger? Bitter days? A reduction to the same seven stories, told over and over again? What if boredom settles in?

Or the nightmare of bliss.

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