"The beauty of her body was the essence of her soul." — F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful And Damned
The burden of holding my heart on my sleeve is constantly worrying about its nakedness in the light of harsh reality. As if the soft touch of breathing air would tamper the perfect fabrication of its still life. I carry it like a beauty so blissfully entrapped in a fragile case of clarity, afraid to lose its innocence the way I lost my head to the cynicism of realism. If this is the last piece of purity that holds true to my spirit, I will encase its unscathed skin from permanent wounds, and keep its sanctity that continues to believe in peace preservation. Because when I need it most, I'll have a sliver of my pastel heart glowing seamlessly in the limelight of fading disposition, reminding me that I'm not lost, simply redirected so I have the opportunity put myself out there.
There is a deeper beauty in how dear we hold what is essential, so meticulous about preserving what gives our hearts fuller meaning. We grasp onto the tips of its hopeful fingers as it were the secret to our withering souls search for happiness. Like the little light that connects our waning time when we feel most lost. They're the pieces of perfection that reminds us of what we once were and how we once wanted so badly. We go to lengths to protect their virginal essence if it means staying true to our inner peace and respecting our hopeful pasts. Because if not for our future, do it for our courageous pasts that believed in the better.
I'm slowly learning how important this is to me nowadays, especially in times of struggling clarity when my mind overtakes my heart. When I feel so disconnected to my surroundings, I just need a simple reminder of what fires the essence of my soul.
Photography by Erika Dickstein