I have tread where I should not have tread. Yet it is too late, and the Truth has become so tragically distorted that the Lie becomes all too seductive. And oftentimes we come to have danced with lies for so long, they become the only verities we know. And when I open my eyes every morning to greet the day anew, there they hover at the bedside, so diligently, so eager for my command. They say there is no such thing as a Truth which saves and I believe them, even as I lie again to myself. I want to feel unbridled Joy, yet I mistakenly revel in my own enslavement, as the Lies sneer with smug come-uppance at my naivete. Joy, they say, is the only true prevarication. And oh, how I know these entities so well, yet still fail to catch them at their game. And I am saved only when I allow myself to realize that their voices are not my own and are out only to maim, perplex and distract from the pursuit of my nobler goals. And this is when I stop to remember Beauty.
Pulchrum est quod visum placet. Beauty is indeed, that which pleases the eye of the beholder. And, of course, there is the beauty of pure aesthetics-that which is concerned with the physical, and beauty of the Soul-that which is of a much more transcendental quality. The utlimate Beauty of the latter kind, I have always thought to be found in Humility-an acquiescence exultant which this wretched, ruminative mind and pitiable Soul have failed countless times to find and hold a tight enough reign upon. For most seemingly have both everything to prove and everthing to lose. And the greatest of these to lose grasp of is Beauty. For Beauty is both a blessing and an equally taxing vexation when the mind, soul and body once possessed it in its fullest frution, yet now lie in great wont of. What is Beauty? Some find it in abundance only where Fear lies cohabitant with Lust. How does one put this into words? Yet I must find a way, somehow.
The ones who who revel in its secrets and its mystery are also the ones who harbour the most Fear & Trembling within their hearts. For Beauty is power, but a power unsurpassed, as it permeates its way languidly throughout the thin membrane of the fragile human essence like soft moonlight after the unbearable radiance of the sun has submitted from a long, hot summer of Mundane Consciousness. Here is one of its secrets, Beauty. It whispers yet it rages. It is sly though not in the least bit coy and lets only those who dare enter into its presence. For it is a presence of the most primeval forms of mind, metaphysics and matter. Beauty is in the way that everything in Nature knows its place and is violently corrected when it steps out of line. Yes, Beauty is in grace. Yet Beauty can also be the oldest alibi in the book to abdicate from a variety of crimes, as the mortal human mind sees juts as much eloquence in Hatred as in Love.
The heart always bleeds while the conceptual, shape-seeking Flesh's Eye knows not. Yet the heart is what determines all in the end. And thus must we learn to enure our minds to the suspension of the disbelief that the ponderance of all things Good & Wholesome are far more meritorious than that search and embrace of all things vile and gratifying only to that staggeringly insolent and arrogant anti-imago divinus that is our stigmatic earthly heritage. Yet like dust to dust, the blissful merging, the soft, supple form of this matter at hand pools with the dense, calcified mass of Irony. For the womb of any impulse nourishes and seeks to substantiate not with what we feign to need and believe is our feed, but with that which we have sought to neglect through our covetous obsessions. But necessity harbours neither memory nor knowledge of the disease and diffidence which haunt the narrow, frigid halls of the Mind's compound like ghosts of relentless reckoning. These ghosts, which forget all too quickly the things that will be most remebered-those things which cannot be forgotten, which are imprinted en coda upon the pneuma as they are so ranked by the Archivists of Noumenal Priority.
We are, therefore we are. And we cannot forget why we came here for in the first place: Amor Fati. But still, we will never fully decipher the lush, fertile anatomy of Beauty and its Byzantium architecture. For where a mortal mind lurks beneath, higher knowledge can be nothing but a knowledge all its own, yet a knowledge incomplete. Nature does not discriminate unless it must choose and it always must choose.Have you ever watched a beautiful thing, dying? Justice for all, not just the ugly and the neglected. Still, I choke upon the bittersweet juices of this mortal life's fruit, yet what is to be savored, of the delectably flavored, must first through all drought and frost take root. Still, are my soul's hands bled and sore from the thorny stamens of Love's ever-receding rose, yet the Aloe Vera of its mollifying mnemonics and anointing amenities, in plenitude still grows. Still, in the Garden Of Omniscience, the Seraph crouches, mauled and jaded, yet in nearest proximity too, lies The Beast, irreconcilably invaded.
Mine eyes have taken in both too much and too little. And so am I left to know that Death is Beauty's near completion, for only in this, does there arise justice for all, the Seraphs and the Beasts. And so there is Love, a word which falls ever so sweetly from our lips, dripping like heavy molasses from the scorched, cunundrum-dumbed tongue, but echoes ever so hollow and dissonant within a mind that can only know what Love is. Yet I wanted to touch her the very first time I saw her. And like lightning upon water, an unparalleled jolt of seismic frisson rattled me to the very foundation, French-kissing my essence. And this sentience of cognition and void synthesis became both fragmented and whole within the roving, quivering eye of Lust's suspension of burgeoning. And for a brief moment in time, I saw her, the Lost Oblivion. and all was revealed to me in such resplendent simplicity that Love, Lust and Beauty revealed themselves to be the unholy Trinity of all raisons d'etre. For there, along with food, sheltering and hydration again lay Longing, an essential of costly omission.
And as it stretched and retreated, stretched and retreated like the tired arm of God, I learned in that moment a very essential thing: the longed for is merely an objectification of a subjectification of an even greater need. And only after knowing this, can a human soul come face to face with its Creator, a Being who wants us to know that when we begin our final descent and have come to the intersection where we must ask ourselves what we want and can no longer provide the Answer for ourselves, ascension awaits, Home. Thus, it was not any rebuke that could not bear on her part after all was said and done. It was her silence, lazy, loathsome and meandering, always choosing to nestle itself invadingly within the already crowded chambers of my mind. Yet she thought that this would bring me relief-cruel to be kind. Yet it was exactly in that moment that she would have given away her comprehension of my need and her part in fulfilling it. For I would often remind her of how silence spoke more vehemently and eloquently than any verbal dissonance. Perhaps my fervency must just have frightened her. But any inanity aches for the sweet, simplifying salve of understanding and acceptance.
And I would tell her not to write me off just yet, for many of her ways were foreign to me. And although I could not fully empathize, I also knew the necessity of random psuedo-consolation. Yet I held no grudges for her mute, deaf and dumbed-down concern, for through her insouciant evasion was mirrored only her own reflection, so akin to mine. Fear in any form always reveals us. Yet as long as I remained in the state I was in, I could not give without first partaking. She was, by far not my ultimate or final solution, yet was a very essential part of the formula for the undoing of my undoing. My need for her was not vital, but it was visceral. My heart had a hollow reverberation when faced with absence of her relation. My blood ran chilled with the rush of toxic yearning. My laughter came from the lungs, wheezy and shallow instead of from the gut-brazen and keen. My bones were silent and stiff as they struggled to move both towards and away from her solemn withdrawal. My sweat tasted of impending neurosis and what of my mind? It wished that it could merge with hers.
But the mind is a diffident cell. It lets in many invaders but will not dar enter into another mind which so neglectfully refuses Truth. And of my soul? It was unfazed but not immune. There simply was no one like her. She could be let go of, but never replaced. I was always filled with utter abandon. My door was always open. No amount of Truth could shut me in as no amount of Truth could shut her out. All I wanted was for her to strip herself away and dive into me like she had done our first night together. She was the only one who knew me and could exonerate me of the crimes of such disorderly cognitive conduct I had wracked myself with all of those years. Yet still, it ended perhaps both despite and because of my intense yen for her. And after I had completed my first year of University, for the summer I had off before returning, the professor and his wife invited me to travel Europe with them. I accepted their gracious offer and we set off. Our first destination was France. I had taught myself a little of the local customs and catchphrases so I figured I could fare pretty well.
Our first night there in Paris we all attended the Opera. I had never been one for Opera, but did not want to offend my patrons and so I went. After that, we all went back to the suite, sipped wine and chatted. For the next three months we tried to take in all we could of the sights in London, Milan, Brussels and Prague. I had managed so far to keep myself on good behaviour and was feeling more hopeful by the time my first semester of my second year began. But my demons were always toiling beneath the surface and pining for release. For when the light goes out, the shadows may appear the have vanished, but be not deceived, for this just means that it has morphed into all-encompassing darkness. I often became seduced by the Devil, mistaking freedom for redemption. Yet it is not unlike Fate, and is very fragile and if we neglect it, both Light & Shadow may be lost to our sight and henceforth will the darkness be better equipped to deceive us. Shadow & Light must coexist not merely because of their complamentarity but because in due time, they will eventually cancel each other out and all that will be left is the Choice and an eager new Void, ever hopeful and infinite.