Beauty is such a strange sadness to a wise beholder. Truth, wrapped in youth like those blossoms that in aging inadvertently aspire to become the hollow frames or elder coccoons to which their own pattern or tapestry in time must trace an inevitable descent and unforgiving trajectory. We celebrate the flower, the spring growth and the spontaneous laughter or #music and mysterious melody of sensual life as though this passing effervescence and colourful display of joy were really anything separate from the darkening thorns and dry leaves of it’s own inevitable weeping.
There is some missing concept here, some wilful misapprehension by which we seek to cage #beauty and youth in impossible ways and there, as though by inversion or psychological projection of our own unspoken fears, we seek to control (or at the very least – to understand) the nature of this great arc of personal time and transient theater. Our love of beauty is the lie we hold so close and bear with us to the end, to all ends; it is a glorious untruth that tenderly softens the blow of cold facts written (in unknown dialects, fragile artefacts and twilight symbols) across all these fleeting hours or days and seconds. An imaginary embrace of desire and fantasy is really only the other side of memory, of forgetting. Beauty reminds us that even as we ourselves might fade, the world might – and at least for a while – endlessly renew itself. This reflection is the one true beauty and sole consolation of philosophy.