An anthology of invisible beauty
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My mind is a camera which reconstructs events and emotions back into the environment’s DNA. I’m one of the universe’s mailboxes. Some letters I like to share with you.
Words are like fireflies. I must be careful how I hold them as they survive in dancing and weightless imaginations only. A choreography of touch and release.
In Micromegas (short story by Voltaire) alien giants gifted human philosophers with a book which was supposed to explain the meaning of everything. Anyone of any belief can read it as it’s completely blank.
Which is what writing is — an interpretation in the making. A blind re-creation of each other. A composition of holographic senses that mimic acts and reactions from nature. Nature doesn’t critique itself. Instead it inspires us to look inwards and exercise trust, spontaneity, symbiosis and mastery. And just as we convey our very own existence in internal dialogs, the beauty of nature is equally unapologetic in its imagery.
So fulfilling to admire a flower, the ocean, the tallness of a tree and colours on a butterfly. But when it comes to admiring our own species we short circuit in emotional success or failure alarms. Furthermore, we only react to beauty that interests us, whereas we are perfectly capable of naturally reacting to beauty in other living beings, whether we relate to them or not. Rich metaphor affairs varying from bugs to tree hollows.
For those who are more sensitive to human traits, I wonder what came first: the response or the questioning?
I’ve always been fascinated by the non factual interpretation of humans. I keep teaching myself to see what doesn’t interest me. To ignore automatism and study the subtle details with utmost interest. I want to know all scientific explanations so I can ignore and counteract them with ethereal instinct.
Electricity works by creating a flow in between conductor elements. How do we transfer energy amongst humans? How do we shed light on HOW and not who we are? I want to perceive presence as visual creation. I want to study you and myself like living illustrations. Pictorially. Sketch my own lines and find meaning in yours.
To this point it seems counterproductive to become immune from excitement by constantly feeding yourself with artful things and beings. That’s what I keep hearing. But what if all this is just a training phase of one’s senses? The common clutter cancels itself in order to leave space for more complex and delicate aspects of what you consider visually attractive. We use various dimensions to convey any meaning so could it be that the keen explorer will ultimately converge into a fine-tuned masterpiece?
Anything remotely close to perfection becomes encoded by its details. Beauty hidden within beauty. A matryoshka of levels directly proportional to one’s perception. Seeing requires mastery in experience, mastery in knowing and mastery in feeling. I can’t see myself pursuing any other goal.
