Why is sorrow beautiful? Or any emotion expressing loss? Suppose emotion is an insight felt by the body without the intervention (& delay) of self-consciousness. Feeling is the way the body “experiences”. With insight, the imagination lights the intellect “to see” an invisible knowledge. With vision this knowledge is realized by an image. The insight is first, but since we never exist without our bodies, if the insight be true, and we are not watching ourselves “have”, try to “own”, nor invade “it” with an added minute or even languorous (decadent?) delay of reflection (self-consciousness) — an emotion can express the beauty of a truth. Beauty as the human condition: our existence in time and if honest — wistfully absolute — as temporary but essential witnesses to and creators of the tragedy that we exist to awake only to disappear.

Consider sorrow now: if this-side tragedy — gentler than grief, if on the far-side of night — an elegiac meditation: the blues, rain, tears, willows, falling — an earthly and aesthetic felt immediacy — a silhouette to sadness, an in-retrospect regard with the slim promise of our sun rising behind us, if we only turn around …


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