RSS SPIRIT

Beauty ain't a player, she just crushes a lot





Last evening there were trees facing a white hushed light. Through black boughs lurked a background of sea. The sky was flush with a sea wind, light; dusky mist refulged then waned when the sun slid past a skyscraper. Joy evinced in light. How? Perhaps mirage, perhaps unintended consequence. Or: the thing that is fueling all of this.

Melancholy peeked out from behind old buildings. A stern stone canyon reflected evening sun obliquely. It cast a light one might remember for a lifetime. The buildings have been around since we were very young. How huge these buildings loom to a five year old. How massively they cut into the sky.

An urge to reject melancholy. An ambition to discover this moment for now, to not need the accretive emotional intelligence feeding it. To become a beginner.

Then, to accept all of it. The melancholy, the beginner's eyes, the simply walking down the street with a plastic bag full of books on a weekday afternoon. Is it dialectical? Maybe not. Maybe it is properly called classical. Banal, glorious and sad mingle without mercy. Quantum like they appear and register on various interpretive measuring tools.

In the evening sky by a sea a misty light invites passers-by to encounter a moment so lovely that it makes one scared. So strong it makes us question. So compelling it turns us into those most unholy of creatures, philosophers.

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