So I can't tell you why my heart warms when it rains. But I can tell you it matters. It might not later, but it does now. You know...I never mean to spout out such nonsense. Well...perhaps others should find it nonsense. I, however, often find amusement in my odd ramblings and questions. Sometimes I look back on them and wonder just where they came from...which often sends me careening off into another hastily-documented musing. Should I consider these thoughts as an escape? After all, they could be observed as such. However, they might simply be honest reactions to the world around me. Then again, I could be crazy and someone will eventually use them as evidence to my lack of stability and sanity. Still, who would care enough to do so?
Things in life are quite fleeting. If you think on it, we humans are little more than tiny sparks in an endless darkness. Time, oddly enough, is the only thing truly timeless. But let's not go off on some tangent regarding time and all its mysteries (as I've done so before...). After all, time is not my main point (though it does play some part...and can I truly admit to having an actual point?). I suppose my point would be true beauty...and the nature of such a subject. Beauty, I feel, can be observed in that which is most fleeting, in that which has no true copy.
Think of a waterfall. It can be quite beautiful, ne? It glistens in the sun, tumbling white and silver, cascading down to disappear into a cloud of thunderous mist. Not water, really, but rather a collection of crystalline droplets, vying for freedom, only to disappear at the end. And the water falling down into such a sight? Ech inch of water is never the same as before. Constantly moving, constantly nothing but an evanescent tumble of shimmering water.
Or perhaps you'd rather bring a flower to mind. Perhaps a cherry blossom with shades of pink and white. So delicate, it begins as a bud, its petals slowly unfurling. But each day it changes--holding a different beauty for each stage of its life--until finally it gives up its tenuous hold on the branch that bore it and floats gently to earth, joining a shower of its kin. And is ever that cherry blosson so beautiful as when it rains down, reaching to embrace the ground which bore its parent? In that final dance, the blossom drifts down, a petal pulling away, and then another, and then another, until the flower lies on a dusting of its fallen companions, less than it was before and yet carrying so much more meaning. There is glory in the fall, glory in such gentle release. But can words capture it? Can words do anything but invoke a pale and fruitless copy of such a scene?
But I have digressed. I meant to write of beauty. But I cannot accept that I have. For there never can be any real beauty, can there? What I see may never compare to the sight of others. For my soul is not that of another.
I have questions. Many and for always. But who does not? Sometimes I can believe we were placed on earth merely to wonder at its mysteries. What is beauty? What is love? Will I ever fall in love? This is not guaranteed. After all, love, in my opinion (which doesn't count, seeing as i am quite young in the scheme of things), is a blending of souls--a kinship, perhaps. And my sould, I am afraid, is quite already enamored of the intangible.
So, when it comes to beauty, or love, or perhaps even the world's more enigmatic subjects, you must decide for yourself. I am only my own judge, after all, and can find only answers for myself. Do not look to others for your understanding; your heart alone knows what you struggle with.
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