—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing.
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
From, The Waste Land
by TS Elliot
What can be said of anything when beauty is all that takes up space in my mind as I splurge my time in thinking? Writing and reading in a café where half the people work and the other half spend their time doing something that will somehow make them better. This constant bettering and the necessity to always constantly improve bewitched me from the moment I realize it runs our lives. Its best expression being the need to be content. The fear of being unhappy is but another part of it, which composes apparently a human right - and has turned into a human obligation. The pursuit of happiness is nothing but a way to take off the possibility and the respectability of being sad and miserable. Yet it is this sadness and misery the only thing that enables the ability to know what happiness and any semblance of joy. I offer you a smile besmirched by reality, the uncontainable impulse to implode, to believe in existence through existentialism. It is through the ugly that we can see and re-define the beautiful.
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