Being aesthetic is not the perfect symmetry of form and shape, hues and lights, reflections and shadows or intellect and dialogue. It’s subtle yet strong…it’s deeply flawed. Beauty is not age or time. It’s not about the battles won or kingdoms conquered. It’s formless, lucid…something that moves, slips, glides, dances and then passes…it’s fleeting yet lasting like a dream… a song or love.
It flickers like flames in mad eyes, stretches across sagging jaw lines and creased cheeks, twitching smiles of a cot, fingers weaving notes into music, in a mother’s unmeasured affections ,wild tempest of a warrior’s pulse, innocent shepherd boy’s narration of his dreams to his flock, souls tangled…their garment the first light of day.
Pain chisels beauty and makes it wiser.It’s only when it’s bruised and aching, ferocious yet forgiving, raw and refined that it’s flow is brilliant and splendid… without pain it would be a stagnant stream afraid to navigate across foreign lands.
That’s beauty…and a lot more. But it’s noting that can be confined in form
or aspect…nothing that a sight can behold but rather what a heart can embrace…forever....
