I once modeled a face.
I modeled it according to my beauty standards.
Did I know from the beginning how beautiful it was?
The modeled face had features that I saw in my parameters as perfect. The smile it gave me was perfect. It looked tenderly and laughed out loud. It was a beautiful face to me.
The face was not young. The face was not old. But it was beautiful that its soul was alive. That it knew how to be pleasant and kind. That it knew it was true.
The face had a perfect body. But it wasn’t nice for that. It was nice because it offered support. It offered comforters. It brought hugs. It valued its work. Protect with the presence. And get lost in the absence.
The face was beautiful because it showed its feelings. It cried when it missed. It cried when it lost. It cried whenever it suffered. It cried when it loved. It was crying when it was happy. And that made it more beautiful.
The face was beautiful because it could be sensitive to beauty. It could be sensitive to joy. It could be sensitive to sadness.
The face was beautiful because it could suffer injustice. Because it was hurt by the wickedness of some.
The face I modeled knew that it was beautiful, without me telling him, just by looking. Because in my eyes it could read that. Because I accepted it as it was. And because it existed.
It was beautiful for me.
Because when I started modeling it, I did it without making a mistake.
Because the face was shaped by the patterns of my soul.