there are words that have te power to rip away the satisfied shell of a life that covers the longings of a soul, a soul that lives only in stolen vicarious moments: in the random phrase of beauty which captures something of the world that the soul once belonged to, or creates a picture that is an echo of the landscape in the soul's deepest, oldest memories.
if one could capture one of these moments of simultaneous discovery, remembrance, and recognition (of a profound intrinsic beauty), that moment would have all the grace and beauty of a butterfly in flight, with the same hushed surrealism, too awe-inspiring to be fully grasped. its identification would be much akin to the capture of a wild butterfly who, when caught, grows old slowly and drops miniscule feathers from brilliantly colored wings, but yet somehow retains its beauty even in death, for life does not make it beautiful; it simply is.

09/30/2001

Posted on 09/30/2001
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