Beautiful

When I was twelve, I walked along a beach in Cornwall with my mother. 
We picked up shells, and watched the white seagulls bobbing along the waves.
I bought those shells home and put them on the windowsill.
Over time, they grew fuzzy with dust, and their white glaze faded. 
But still I kept them there, long after they had lost their beauty.
There are a lot of beautiful things in my world.
Rolling fields and quiet cottages. Sunrises that blaze like wildfire across a skyline. 
The smile of a beautiful girl under the light of the moon, weeks before she tells me that it just doesn't feel right.
I think I am a much better writer than an artist.
The lines are always shaky. They never quite seem to look the way they are supposed to.
It's a different kind of frustration. One of these days I will get it.
I'll collect all of these beautiful things. Line them up along the windowsill in my mind.
And maybe one day I will get them just right.
Maybe one day I will capture a moment, hold it in the palm of my hand, and say, "Yes. Yes, that's it. That's how I feel."
And maybe one day someone will find all those moments. See the dust, the fading, the broken shells.
And say, "You poor fool. You loved far too much. But it is never a waste to love."
Maybe they'll think it's beautiful.
Maybe they'll think I'm beautiful.