Friday, November 18, 2011

On Love, the Mother of Beauty

There is a constant stream of ineffable prose running through my head.  It is a feeling, an emotional response, a stirring in the deepest places of my heart that connects it profoundly to the beauty in the world around me. There are volumes of poetry that will never be written and songs that will never be sung, as the words just never come.  In moments of inspiration, when it seems that I might be able to capture the beauty I see - a particularly beautiful Midwestern sunset, the gentle rise and fall of sleeping baby on sleeping mother's chest, the quiet expressions of love I see in strangers giving to strangers - the moment passes and the words I'm left with are simply inadequate, barely brushing up against the true beauty of the moment, a crude facsimile, a copy of a copy of a copy. 
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