The Beautiful People

The beautiful people stand with skewed hips, contemplating their grandeur in their dark sunglasses. They are wealthy and hip. They shine with the satisfaction of knowing they are better than you.

Sometimes, the beautiful people are old. Sometimes the beautiful people have strange facial features. The beautiful people are able to pull these things off, as if other people’s faults were merely interesting in the face of pure beauty.

Sometimes, I pretend that I am one of them. For minutes at a time, I can decide to be a beautiful person, wearing my sunglasses just so, practicing nonchalance. Except, I tell myself, for the bit about being better than everyone. I don’t want to believe that.

If you let that thought in, the illusion collapses in paradox. I would like to say that the collapse is beautiful, but it is not. It is dusty and mothy and leaves a cloud that makes me cough. The collapse creates a vacuum, a black hole of confidence.

If there is beauty here, it is in the way the smoke curls near the end of its settling. It is a vision allowed in rather than one projected.