Of What Pours from Reality
I have seen reality, pierced its center and watched its essence flow. Bursting forth from its side came a flood of pain, all in a specific amount, happiness, in such particular measure, perfection, in small portions, and evil, in grand allocation. Flowing over my mind, filling it with sorrow and desperation, joy and love, I found myself lost within myself, contemplating the components. Oddly, I considered, there was no beauty in the flood, no allure in the essence.
Pouring myself over the ideas, the novel thoughts which my mind had so recently come across, I forsook the vastness of such distinct concepts and theories for the search of just one: beauty. The entire being of reality, the entire knowledge of its specificities, paled in value as the realization came upon me that beauty was not present in reality. Beauty, despite all we wish it to be, was absent. Not innate to all things, or even one thing.
I waited for some epiphone, some revolution of the mind which may lead me to uncovering beauty under the shadow. However no matter how long I lied in wait, the hours I spent in search and wanting, beauty eluded me. If beauty is not present in reality, then how might I contemplate things and determine them as beautiful? How is it that I can look upon another and think her beautiful beyond measure and be breathless as I admire the reality before me? How can a concept not found in reality speak toward that which is in reality without breaking which is within realities realm?
My meditations and beliefs collided with each other, shattering one and strengthening the former. Beauty, against all odds, is not, nor has ever been, in reality nor will it ever be. It, rather, exists within my mind and my fellow thinker, yet each existence of beauty is distinct from mind to mind, a specific uniqueness to the individual. But it is certain that we all appreciate some things as beautiful, yes? And this is where true beauty introduces itself to us. Beauty, in its purest form, never limited itself to the individual, but existed on its own. It is only in our ability to interpret this abstract which we find cohesion and parallelism between each of our fellow human, the interpretation of the symphony created by the whole of reality. Beauty never came from reality because, as it seems, beauty was and is reality, with all things pouring forth from it.