The Sublime and the Beautiful

We lied to ourselves on what is beautiful.

What constitutes the beautiful is a beautiful delusion perpetuated by fortune tellers, story tellers, poets and directors alike. Under the sole reason, without a religious conviction of its existence, existence becomes unbearable.

An internalized vision of the eternal and the perfect, yet simultaneously and paradoxically presenting as the transient and the vernal. 

The spiritual becomes the sensual, through centuries of relentless yet tragically failed attempts at spiritualization of not the imagery of the actual, but the actual world. 

As if we take her with us, we would finally be free, once and for all, if only for a while. 

As if we could finally be whole, through shattering ourselves into a thousand tiny pretty pieces.

As if through the laughable capturing of the beautiful, we can overlook the fact that we are constantly mutilating ourselves, for none other than her pale ghost.

How far we are willing to go to play the mind game of beautifying objective reality until we get a monstrous replica of the semblance of the beautiful? 

Once the ideal is forced out of the idealplace, she is degraded, desecrated, and becomes worthless and priceless.

The contemplation of things and beings results, quite ironically, in the sober realization that she is not what she claims to be. Beatrice and Margaret makes two misers in different times, in different places.

In literature, this maketh the realist to become the surrealist, the surrealist a romantic, the romantic a dead romantic. 

Contrary to the popular opinion of the world being a stage, it is rather a garbage bin. Made of perfumery decays and remains of actors and wannabe actors, fools and pretenders of fools. All intermingled in the flowerbed of exquisite trash. An elaborate fare for maggots to consume blindly albeit faithfully, thanks to the blind desire to consume simply to consume (philistines).

The beautiful is dead, and in her death beautiful.

This is the final metamorphosis of the symbolic moth, after stages of excruciating metamorphoses. The work left incomplete yet lingering. That is to say, its scintillating scent: Euphoria, disillusionment, a bittersweet aftertaste.

In a sense, the beautiful is sublime in the sense that the beautiful does not really exist.