Abdi Nazemian

Exquisite Things

Lindsay

Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic. 

And men tend to destroy when they can do as they please.

I hear her deflate with a sigh. I know she pretends, too. Her happiness is a costume she wears for others. Underneath it is her quiet grief.

The setting sun has turned the sky a devastatingly beautiful orange. Like the color of a calm fire, not the kind of flames that could ever burn or hurt you, simply the kind that will warm and heal you. I suppose all beautiful things are like that. They can be used to heal or to destroy. That is, perhaps, the magic behind their beauty.

She sees all that’s wrong with the world. Doesn’t ignore it. But she refuses to let the awfulness define her. I think it’s her knowledge of the brutality around us that makes her work so hard to provide light.

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