He is perfection.
He is perfection.
He is perfection to some, human to others, but to himself, he is just that, himself...Jeffrey Nero Hardy.
Those that look at him, gaze at him in wonder, in awe,and in envy. His body nearing the boundaries of
perfection, his voice the epitome of southern grace, his face etched with extraordinary, chiseled features.
He seems nothing short of excellence. His eyes graced with the light of the heavens and stars above, his
hair touched with every color in the spectrum, quite literally might I add, and his lips caressed with the
sweetness of honey and the smoothness of silk. People gawk and stare at such a sight as he, yet he walks on
still, never wavering in his steady and controlled step. His talent in the business shines with such brilliance and his emotions convey through his work. His skill is remarkable and the suffering he welcomes is heartbreaking. His emerald eyes, hidden behind dark sunglasses as he continues his stride, suppress the tears that constantly threaten to spill. His eyes alone would be one person’s way into his soul. That would be, only, if that person were to take the time to glance uneasily into his eyes. The power and depth behind those green orbs would knock another off of their feet in one single second. Those that love him, those that adore him, and those that are simply infatuated with him could never fully comprehend the constant pain. To them, he is simply a pawn in their game; a player who is used far to often. His face, to them, is just that, the face of the man that brings them enjoyment, fulfillment, and energy. He is just a face, a pretty face in a magazine for them to plaster upon their walls. His feelings mean nothing to them; merely words on a page. Those pages of his life are nothing, yet he is perfection. His memories are a blur to him, a faded past that haunts him. They see him, yet they are blind to him. Those same dark sunglasses that shield his eyes are the same blinders they wear when they look at him. He is nothing more than a pretty face with fancy moves.
He is perfection to them.
He is human.
I look at him and I wonder. His body, his voice, and his face all a blur in the whirlwind that I have lost myself in. His words are nearing the boundaries of genius, his spirit the epitome of grace, his feelings etched with the misery of an extraordinary being. He is nothing short of wonderment. His eyes graced with a sadness that is unexplainable, his hair touched with every color in the spectrum, expressing his individuality, his lips caressed with his own breath as his chest rises and falls steadily. His ability to suffer stems from his experience and his talent expresses years of his vocation. He is the air that I breathe, that refreshing sense that awakes me from my deep slumber. He is the dream I accept as true in my unconscious state. He is the pain and uncertainty that courses through my veins as I watch in awe at his ability. People gawk and stare at such a sight as he, yet he walks on still, never wavering in his steady and controlled step.
-THE END-
