light shooting out from a thousand wingtips

28 November 2008 - 09:51

<<--unravel * reintegrate-->>

Sometimes I find myself questioning the things I find beautiful. Are they really beautiful? Do I have taste? It almost starts to feel like admiration is a game that I'm not good at -- not for lack of admiration, but lack of discrimination.

But then I remember that there is no beauty without an eye. An I. And everything I love seems lifeless without me, gray, shrouded. I see the place where my gaze meets the world as the source of beauty, insert myself into each of my beautiful pictures or thoughts. There I am in a glass house, next to a monkey puzzle tree, soaring above the desert. What I find beautiful is only half of an equation. These objects are not the same without me.

I am a cat animating a wadded up ball of paper.

<<--unravel * reintegrate-->>