In the Presence of Imperfect Beauty: A Portrait of Her Soul
“She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn’t supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.”
— Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell.
In the shadows of the gallery, where the muted colors of twilight bled through high windows and settled on the worn wooden floors, she stood like a figure from a dream—neither fully there nor completely absent, but existing somewhere in the in-between. She never looked nice, never blended into the soft hues of the background or the quiet murmur of voices. Instead, she emerged from the depths of her own existence like a brushstroke against a blank canvas—bold, raw, and utterly unyielding.
Her presence was a contradiction, a dance between chaos and control, between the wildness of nature and the meticulous hand of an artist. Her hair fell in dark waves, cascading down her back in a manner that defied taming. It was as if the very strands were alive, moving with a life force that pulsed beneath the surface, refusing to be confined by the expectations of neatness or order. She wore it like a crown, a declaration of her defiance, a signal that she belonged to no one but herself.
Her face was not symmetrical in the way that magazine covers demanded, but it was beautiful in its imperfection. The slight crook in her nose, the faint scar that traced a line along her cheek, the uneven curve of her lips—these were the details that made her unforgettable. Each one told a story, whispered secrets of a life lived with passion, with intensity, with an unwillingness to be anything other than who she was. Her skin, kissed by the sun and marked by time, bore the marks of experiences, of moments that had shaped her into the person she had become.
Her eyes, dark and deep, held a universe within them. They were not the kind of eyes that invited casual glances; they demanded that you look deeper, that you see beyond the surface. They were the kind of eyes that pulled you in, that made you confront the parts of yourself you had hidden away, that made you feel both seen and vulnerable. There was a weight in her gaze, a heaviness that spoke of wisdom earned through hardship, of knowledge that came at a cost. And yet, there was also a spark, a glimmer of light that hinted at a joy that refused to be extinguished.
She never looked nice, and she never tried to. Her beauty was not the kind that was easily understood, not the kind that could be neatly packaged or put into words. It was the kind of beauty that came from within, that radiated from her soul and manifested in every aspect of her being. It was a beauty that challenged you, that made you uncomfortable, that forced you to confront your own preconceived notions of what beauty was supposed to be. It was a beauty that made you feel, deeply and profoundly, in a way that left you changed.
Her clothes draped over her form like a second skin, chosen not for their fashion but for their connection to her soul. The fabrics were soft and worn, each piece imbued with a sense of history, of memories that clung to the fibers like ghosts. The colors were muted, earth tones that blended seamlessly with the world around her, yet there was something about the way she wore them that made them stand out. She moved with a grace that was entirely her own, a fluidity that came not from training but from a deep connection to the earth beneath her feet.
When she walked, it was as if she was in tune with a rhythm that only she could hear, a melody that guided her every step. She moved through the world like a dancer on a stage, each movement deliberate, each gesture filled with meaning. She didn’t rush, didn’t hurry to keep up with the frantic pace of life around her. Instead, she moved at her own speed, as if she was in control of time itself, bending it to her will. There was a confidence in her stride, a sense of purpose that was both captivating and intimidating.
Her presence was a disruption, a beautiful fracture in the monotony of the everyday. She was not someone you could easily ignore; she demanded attention, commanded it with every fiber of her being. There was an energy about her, a force that drew people in, that made them want to be close to her, to bask in her light. But she was not easy to get close to. She kept her distance, not out of fear, but out of necessity. She knew the power she held, knew that not everyone could handle the intensity of her presence. She was selective in who she let into her world, and those who were chosen knew they were in the presence of something extraordinary.
She never looked nice, because nice was too small a word to describe her. Nice was a word for things that were pleasant, that were easy, that didn’t make waves or cause disruption. She was none of those things. She was a force of nature, a storm that could not be contained, a fire that could not be extinguished. She was art, and art was never meant to be nice. Art was meant to challenge, to provoke, to stir something within you that you didn’t even know was there. Art was meant to make you feel, to make you think, to make you question everything you thought you knew.
When you looked at her, it was like standing before a masterpiece in a museum. You couldn’t just glance at her and move on; you had to take her in, to absorb every detail, every nuance. You had to let yourself be drawn into her world, to let her take you on a journey through her mind, her soul, her heart. And as you did, you felt something shift within you, something awaken that had been dormant for far too long. She was not just a reflection of the world around her; she was a reflection of the world within you, a mirror that showed you parts of yourself you had forgotten existed.
Her smile was rare, but when it came, it was like a sunrise after a long, dark night. It wasn’t a smile of ease or comfort; it was a smile that spoke of understanding, of empathy, of a deep connection to the human experience. It was a smile that made you feel seen, truly seen, in a way that was both exhilarating and terrifying. Her laughter, when it came, was like music, a melody that filled the air with a sense of joy, of lightness, of freedom. It was a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there was always a reason to laugh, to find joy, to celebrate the beauty of life.
Her voice was soft, but it carried weight. It was the kind of voice that didn’t need to shout to be heard, the kind that resonated deep within you, that made you listen, really listen, to what she was saying. She spoke with a wisdom that came from experience, from a life lived on the edge, where the highs were exhilarating and the lows were devastating. Her words were like poetry, each one carefully chosen, each one carrying a meaning that went beyond the surface. Talking to her was like peeling back the layers of an onion, each layer revealing something deeper, something more profound.
She moved through life like a living piece of art, each moment a brushstroke on the canvas of her existence. She wasn’t concerned with being liked, with fitting into the neat boxes that society tried to place her in. She was concerned with being true to herself, with expressing the raw, unfiltered reality of her soul. And in doing so, she became a mirror for those around her, reflecting back not what they wanted to see, but what they needed to see. She was a reminder that life was not about being nice, about fitting in, about conforming to the expectations of others. Life was about being true to yourself, about living with passion, with intensity, with a deep connection to the world around you.
She was art, and like all great art, she wasn’t easy to understand. She didn’t offer simple answers or comfortable truths. Instead, she offered a glimpse into the complexity of the human experience, into the beauty that could be found in imperfection, in the raw and the real. She made you feel—sometimes joy, sometimes sorrow, sometimes confusion—but always something. And that was her gift, her power. She never looked nice, because nice was never the point. The point was to feel, to be moved, to be changed. And in that, she succeeded more than anyone else ever could.
In the end, she was a reminder that life, like art, is not about being nice. It’s about being real, about being honest, about embracing the beauty and the pain, the light and the darkness. It’s about feeling, deeply and profoundly, in a way that leaves you forever changed. And as you walked away from her, from the experience of knowing her, you realized that you would never be the same. She had touched something within you, something that would continue to resonate long after she was gone. She had made you feel, in a way that few ever could. And that, in the end, was the greatest gift of all.
She never looked nice —
she looked like art,
a canvas sprawled
with wild strokes of the heart.
Her eyes were not jewels,
but the shadow of night,
piercing the stillness
with a powerful light.
Her smile was a whisper
of secrets untold,
a brush of the past
on the edges of gold.
She wore her disarray
like a cloak of deep hues,
a testament living
in splashes of blues.
She was not meant to be easy,
or tranquil, or bright;
she was meant to awaken,
to stir in the night.
For art’s not about beauty
or form that’s refined —
it’s the tempest, the wonder,
the stirrings of mind.
Ditulis oleh Cecilia — Calla Lily. Tangerang, 26 Agustus 2024.
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