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Jan. 11th, 2007 03:05 amThere's something easy about ignoring beauty, isn't there?
Sometimes we don't want to gaze at the work of another when it reminds us so completely of our own insecurities and inabilites, or to contemplate the majesty of nature when it makes us seem so frail. How many of us willfully stop looking at the stars?
I'm feeling very...unconsoled. Perhaps even, in the actual as well as musical words of a personal hero of mine, discontent. The philosophy that springs from overwrought brains that haven't managed sleep by 3 AM is turning increasingly inimical, asking questions to which I am increasingly doubting the answers. Why do you even pretend? You cling to those beads and those books like a street addict to his dirty needle - why can't you give up this drug? Don't you see what it does to you? You're worse with it, it makes you miserable and hated. Nothing good comes from being what you are. Just go cold turkey. Accept that there is no higher power, and restore your life to sanity...
And I look at those beads, just rope and olive wood, and at my hand-written prayer book, now in its second edition, and I don't know if is some act of quiet self-destruction or a way of stemming the tide of thoughts that scare me. I even thought it rationalized my loneliness, but it doesn't - and I blame it for that - for not neatly and quietly taking care of that too.
And yet I look at those beads, and I read the words, and I see something beautiful. Something I didn't see anywhere else, and still don't. Something that forces me to look at the stars.
And I don't know whether the demons will conquer the better angels of my nature, but I know that I never want to stop looking at the stars.
Sometimes we don't want to gaze at the work of another when it reminds us so completely of our own insecurities and inabilites, or to contemplate the majesty of nature when it makes us seem so frail. How many of us willfully stop looking at the stars?
I'm feeling very...unconsoled. Perhaps even, in the actual as well as musical words of a personal hero of mine, discontent. The philosophy that springs from overwrought brains that haven't managed sleep by 3 AM is turning increasingly inimical, asking questions to which I am increasingly doubting the answers. Why do you even pretend? You cling to those beads and those books like a street addict to his dirty needle - why can't you give up this drug? Don't you see what it does to you? You're worse with it, it makes you miserable and hated. Nothing good comes from being what you are. Just go cold turkey. Accept that there is no higher power, and restore your life to sanity...
And I look at those beads, just rope and olive wood, and at my hand-written prayer book, now in its second edition, and I don't know if is some act of quiet self-destruction or a way of stemming the tide of thoughts that scare me. I even thought it rationalized my loneliness, but it doesn't - and I blame it for that - for not neatly and quietly taking care of that too.
And yet I look at those beads, and I read the words, and I see something beautiful. Something I didn't see anywhere else, and still don't. Something that forces me to look at the stars.
And I don't know whether the demons will conquer the better angels of my nature, but I know that I never want to stop looking at the stars.
