It feels like most people want beauty. Love the things that excite the eye, that stand out, that feel unreal. For me, it’s different. The word ‘beautiful’, it feels uncomfortable to me. Newness and surprise, color and wonder, don’t comfort me. I find my comfort in the most basic things, the old, tired things, the unremarkable. The parts of the photo that eyes shift over, mine rest there. The dry grass, the dull sky, the faded tree line. The normal to me, it isn’t ugly. The ugly to me is real. Maybe, the real is what I find beautiful. Don’t pretty cry for me, with your tears in silent tracks—ugly cry, with raw emotion, unrestrained. I’d rather your body be honest, your feelings be real. It’s not ugly to me. The wrinkles that crease your face where you laughed, where you worried. The dullness of dust, the history in dirt. The real, raw, vulnerability of the unremarkable.