I can give you a more direct communication from my pen than from my mouth.
Everyone thought her beautiful, and yet she always wondered why it was that the leaves always burst with beauty as a prelude to their deaths. Before they fall, brown and completely devoid of life, they leapt in celebration, flowing red and orange and golden and yellow on the branches enveloped by an autumn gust. This, this was beauty, and it was beauty awaiting death. If others thought her beautiful, what was she awaiting?