by Dayna Desastre | Writing |

The beautiful people - by Dayna Desastre

i think the most beautiful people are dead people. they are always the most stunning, secretive; as if leaving a legend behind is enough to cater beauty.
i love people who are memorable, who are different and who have a prosperous brilliance around them. nimbus light and an evanescent aura. if greta garbo wore rags and andy let his hair grow grey and skin tan they would look beautiful in the autopsies. edie and edvard and anthony and lewis, drowning in the crimson sea of coffin silks. morgues must be filled with such a glowing beauty. when you’re dead everyone loves you more. egregious photographs and meaningful words. its almost like it takes an entire lifetime to learn how to be beautiful.

the permanent as contrasted with the accidental element of being

beautiful feelings are like beautiful people: they’re only there when they die. feelings never come with sentiments until their death. i want to articulate my every heartache. with every patter of brain matter and dream, i want to sing to the world just how i feel. it isn’t till’ the feelings pass that i have the right words to say. it isn’t till’ the feeling' s died - and there is a sense in your heart sometimes that your blood is filling your veins so thick and full that your lungs are unable to breathe. and you fall from your chair with grace and lean your legs on the wall and meditate soft and soundly to the drawl of the music. and you dance around like a maddened devotchka and you spin on the tips of your toes like a child ballerina. it seems in that moment you’re closer to something that you can’t quite put your finger on; that in that very second your hand has grazed the tips of a brilliant revelation.

but that is but a place, and places never really die. places are but the canvas backdrop for the staged beauty. places are not beautiful. places do not feel. places never really die.

and there is a place in your heart, dormant in the blood-lined veins, that causes your lungs to swell and arms to bleed. it is the backdrop of every memory. the nostalgia-wrought setting of childhood wishes and remorseful dreams. your heart keeps on beating, the place will never die. secrets kept close to your breast, buried in the fleshy muscular pump like a gift wrapped in tissue and a mummy in linen and silks. your heart is the locket, a simple place, and places never really die.

the most beautiful people are the dead ones. the passing, deceased. they are always the most stunning, secretive; as if leaving a legend behind is enough to cater beauty. buried in one’s heart, 6 inches under flesh, is the articulated heartache; the patter of brain matter. the unrequited love, secret hate, and quiet fears. the feelings that never died, that never shed a cocoon to reveal a wordy length of nimbus light. and those feelings will never see the glimmer of day, the arch of light only grazed on by nimble fingers- the feelings will remain forever alive in the undying labyrinth of one’s heart.

and so we lay ourselves to rest. the most beautiful people are the dead people, those who die with secrets deep in their hearts. it takes an entire lifetime to be beautiful.

it takes an entire lifetime to feel.