unseen beauty

She ran a hand along her jaw line, feeling the muscles tense under her touch. There would be no talking today. Just humming. And typed words on the screen, or ink scribbled notes.
With a sigh, she sank onto her worn, navy-blue couch, white robe falling off her left shoulder. It was going to be a long day. She knew in advance. A long, lonely day. Lonely, because no one read anything of hers anymore. She understood that they had other things to do; but was she not just as busy as them? There had been no contact with them for several weeks now. And still she tried. She wasn’t able to pick up the phone and call; the electricity wasn’t always guaranteed, and then there was the stutter she had developed that sometimes froze the word she was speaking into one agonizing syllable. To express herself, to release the thoughts and feelings of her heart – her only real means of communication was through the writings. And the photographs. And the art.
They knew where it was all at; it never changed locations. And there were new, exciting things every week. But it seemed as if they no longer cared. As if she was the only one that actually gave a damn about something. They had locked her into a cell, with no means of escape. Her words were there, waiting to be read; her art was there, waiting to be stared at. And still no one came. No one wanted to know her, to love her. No one cared.
Torture.

She sat there for an hour, staring off into space, the robe slipping off her shoulder, off her back. She bit her lip when her thoughts drifted away from the empty apartment, and into the past; about her last boy friend, how he would not talk to her now, because he never really loved her. There was no friendship, no loyalty, no love. Nothing. Just the blood-chilling fact that he used her, and discarded her.
She hadn’t cried about it yet.

But now, with everything weighing down upon her, she eventually succumbed to the tears that dripped down the length of her nose. She buried her face in a pillow and sobbed, gasping for air. She knew that if she cried, it would be all right. And yet she hated crying. Her jaw began to ache again, and she rubbed it slowly, methodically, as she struggled to sit up.
I need to get a grip, she thought. I can’t lose it like this.

She forced herself to take long, deep breaths, and to sit still, hugging the robe around her shivering body. After a moment, she got up and paced for a while, trying to clear her mind. It was going to be alright. Life moves on. At least your art is out there. At least you are blessed with the gift of writing.
But is it a gift or a curse?

She passed the carving of the angel her father had given her, just before he died. The creamy paint was peeling off the wings, and around the eyes of the majestic creature. She stopped before it, feeling weariness fall over her. With a last sigh, she kissed her first two fingers, and touched them to the angel’s lips. And then she disappeared into her bedroom, to create more of the beauty that no one would ever see.

http://finchsnest.blogspot.com/2006/11/angel.html