I haven’t seen the world and my wisdom is yet green. I have only the words I find on my floor. I pick them up and listen to their whispers. Then thought descends upon these voices and I begin to wonder if they speak only to me as me, or to me as man.
It starts were every beautiful thing begins. It starts in emptiness - a blank sheet, an empty canvas, virgin soil, silence, solitude. A solitude of the mind that seeks to console itself.
So it is that beauty is born. It is filled with the passionate extremes of human thought and emotion. It speaks in hushed tones and shouts at the stars, it marks a page corner and erupts in colour, it gently strokes with the soft of the hand and grabs violently at the heart, it hints at a memory and takes hold of thought with overwhelming scent, it is both a subtle flavour and a kiss dripped in chocolate decadence.
You’ll find it only on the edge and never in between. It can not be ignored or overlooked or denied. It is power in its purest form and within the reach of all men. Men who are willing to abandon themselves to the emptiness. To risk the desolation of Hope. And at its root, is the hope that we share an intimacy with another. Whether broad or specific, a world of dreams and mountains of desire is being brought to rest on a thread that binds our souls. So man in his desire for beauty finds himself where he began – in the womb. As mighty as it is fragile, but so it is with all things beautiful.