Archive for the 'Beauty' Category

My Part

When asked I would have to say, “disenchanted”.

In a world controlled by the population vote, in a world where right and wrong are unyielding and misunderstood, in a world where the poor go hungry and the rich roam free: Disenchanted.

There are a few laws by which this world turns, and one of those laws I have a great personal interest in.

Knowledge is power.

We hear it everyday and never question it’s servitude, we hear it and believe, but never really think of it’s repercussions. Knowledge is power, my friends, merely because without it we are not propelled into any form of action. Knowledge is power, and half of the world is ignorant.

From the unspeakable in Darfur to the AIDS epidemic in Africa to the Homeless living right here on the streets of my home town I am responsible. Knowledge is not only power but it is responsibility; responsibility to act.

The pain inflicted upon these people is enough to cause one to deny the very existence of that pain, but to deny the pain is to deny the hope. We must speak of the unspeakable and we must act accordingly. To deny pain simply because it is painful is to disconnect ourselves from humanity, and that, my friends, is a greater loss than I am willing to bear.

In a world where men deny the pain of reality and claim themselves invincible: Disenchanted.

I swear to you, whoever you may be, that I will not live my life denying any man the respect and dignity that he deserves. This life will cause me great pain, I am sure, but a greater pain, a disconnection of all brothers and sisters from one another, will be soon to follow if more do not stand and act upon that which they know to be true: We are in this together, and no man is greater than another.

In a world where one can save the lives of many, and chooses to think only of himself…

The Conflict of Knowlege

This is the story of a magician,
A man playing to an audience of spectators sitting in utter amazement, trying with desperation to break down what they just saw into understandable terms. The last man in the world able to create wonder, a trick only known to himself, is absolutely invaluable in this world, and yet he wishes for nothing more than an eternal rest.

I have heard it said that language is nothing more than the human brain trying to explain away the universe; for people cannot handle the truth… that the universe cannot be explained. For after all, all of our most brilliant hypothesies are completely dependant on our assumption that what the universe does do is what the universe should do. All of our hypothesies are dependant on other hypothesies.

The magician goes home to an empty house of nothing more amazing than a light bulb burning bright. Light particles traveling at an astounding rate and reflecting off of everything that they touch. All explained. All boring.

Most humans have the assumption that they have a nature that is bad. A desire to be selfish. A tendency to think of our selves before others, and yet, we stop ourselves to do the “right” thing. Why? If we have a nature to be selfish than why would we choose to do something against our nature?

The magician’s answer for such a question is that, for some unknown reason, humans need to relate with other humans; to understand and to be understood. Why, he cannot say. And in this world it is the only thing that keeps him from crying himself to sleep every night.

A tear does drop from his eye this night however, but it is not because there is no more wonder in the world, on the contrary, it is that this one elusive element of life is so beautiful that he cannot stop himself.


What is a poet? An unhappy man who conceals profound anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so fashioned that when sighs and groans pass over them they sound like beautiful music. His fate resembles that of the unhappy men who were slowly roasted by a gentle fire in the tyrant Phalaris’ bull—their shrieks could not reach his ear to terrify him, to him they sounded like sweet music. And people flock about the poet and say to him: do sing again; Which means, would that new sufferings tormented your soul, and: would that your lips stayed fashioned as before, for your cries would only terrify us, but your music is delightful. And the critics join them, saying: well done, thus must it be according to the laws of aesthetics. Why, to be sure, a critic resembles a poet as one pea another, the only difference being that he has no anguish in his heart and no music on his lips. Behold, therefore would I rather be a swineherd on Amager, and be understood by the swine than a poet, and misunderstood by men.

Søren Kierkegaard ~ Diapsalmata

A Not So Happily Ever After

Alright so I wrote this a few months back, and yes, I have posted it before but, I never got any criticism concerning it. So I am re-posting this fairy tale in hopes that I may receive a bit, no matter how harsh.

Any ideas for names would also be much appreciated, But for now it will remain titled
A Fairy TaleAdobe Acrobat Reader

A Muse Without an Artist

To be an artist would be a great adventure.

I wish that I could be an artist with everything inside of me..?.. “I wish”… words that don’t normally come out of my mouth.

Could it be that something inside of me is changing; that the impossible is becoming possible once again; that the world doesn’t seem such a cruel place after all?

Oh, but alas, my old self will not let me forget the tortures of this world; my old self will not let me be content in my emotion.

When I recollect that I am human and neglect to hate my self for it, the voice inside screams, “You were happier then!” a lie that rings so true.

The object of my uniquity gone. Taken by that which makes me weak. And that which makes me weak making me strong… Living in that paradox is beautiful and astounding.

Art; true art, is a perfect balance of reality and “the way it could be” in the eyes of the person doing the balancing. Could it be that I am an artist? Could it be that everything that I wish for is actually real. Could it be that this balancing act that I do, I merely take for granted. And could it be, that after all this time there really is no answer, but just more questions?

I don’t really know. In fact I don’t even know what I’m waiting for, but what I do know is, that no matter how hard I try, unless I’m looking for another question, I’m not going to find a thing….

And that’s beautiful.

Monotonous Exultation

The thing I mean can be seen, for instance, in children, when they find some game or joke that they specially enjoy. A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.

G.K. Chesterton ~ Orthodoxy


Ideologies separate us. Dreams and anguish bring us together.

Eugene Ionesco

A Logical Death of Beauty


Poetry is sane because it floats easily in an infinite sea: reason seeks to cross the infinite sea, and so make it finite.

G.K. Chesterton ~ Orthodoxy

My Inner Conflict

Duality is the mark of life.

My nature blinds me. My pride anesthetizes me. And, in the end, I betray myself.
Logic has become me, and beauty has died. I have become guilty of piracy.
My struggle has ended, but the battle is lost. The war continues, but I am numb.
My ears hear, but my eyes do not see. My mind comprehends, but I have become a hypocrite; the person I hate.

Strength comes through the weakness, but in becoming “strong” I have become weak; in becoming wise I have become a fool. And in becoming righteous I have become wicked.

A new dawn arises, and with it new hope. The pain is unbearable. But I must stay the course. I am, now, no more than a mere mortal, but the knowledge that nothing has changed is what brings the pain.

Now knowing pain, I grieve for those I have wounded. But new life is upon me, and with it new understanding.
I now know the struggle. I have joined the rebellion. And I will fight.