Fragile Beauty

 

Her gaze is dignified and straightforward, yet somehow fragile. Her white, shiny dress accentuates her matte, china-like skin. Her cheeks are faint peachy, and her fingertips have a raw temperature.—

That's how people who see this portrait hundreds of years from now will describe it. Whatever it takes. Frankly, I was getting utterly bored with the constant posing like this. Being portrayed is so exhausted. I try to shrug off the endless space of silence by thinking. I will try to come up with something for which I have no answer. I am a thinking person. In particular, I thought about dreams and reality.

Dreaming is freedom. Everything in this world is finite, and every happiness has an end. Today's dream may be tomorrow's reality. But the thoughts, imaginations, and feelings within you are your own. They should be yours.

I turned to the rose at hand. The man of the mansion had arranged for these flowers, saying that they would go well with my name, rose. I was born in a traditional Europe royal family. My parents gave me the name Rose because they wanted me to be beautiful and unique as a rose. 

Flowers are beautiful. How tasteful it is to put beautiful roses in a clear green vase. But even as I am overwhelmed by their beauty, their fragility moistens my eyes. Flowers will wither someday. Beauty is not eternal. Is it beautiful because it is finite? Or is it finite because it is lovely? Is my beauty as limited as a rose? If there is an end to life, I want to be beautiful now. I am forever beautiful in this portrait.

If eternity does not exist in reality, then I shall always be beautiful in my dreams. Dreams are in one's own mind, belonging to no one, and are not interfered with by time. Thinking is freedom and liberation.

"Finally, it is done for today." Suddenly the portrait painter says, and the eternal silence is broken.