Notions on Beauty

I needed a journal last night, and found one I had barely started. Though the pages themselves were mostly blank, the journals was stuffed with scraps of things I had scribbled on during "the dark years." I continue to be amazed by the depth of some of the things I wrote when I was was 14, 15, 16 years old. My pen explained what was on my heart in so much more detail, in so much more beauty.



One scrap in particular rambled about pain. I wrote about pain as not only producing beauty, such as beauty from pain, beauty from ashes, but actually holding some beauty in the heartache itself. I talked about purity in it's stark-whiteness, and how void of beauty that could seem in contrast to the bright screaming red and deep sorrowful blues of heart ache. Is it possible that the mourning and screaming of the heart at a death bed, as a life in pulled from this world, could be just as beautiful as beautiful as the screech of life being lurched forward in this world at birth?

Now, I know in a sense, this sounds very morbid, maybe even a little sick. But aren't we as a people obsessed with both life and death, pain and pleasure? I argue that there is a beauty, not from the pain, but actually in the pain itself that captures us so, wraps us up in the ups and downs (particularly, the downs).

I look back now at the lowest lows I've been too. At the time, it sucked ass. I wasn't happy, I hated life, yadayadayada, but now, in hind site -- I can see a beauty there as well.