May I tell you a story of a friend held most closely to my heart? The same friend you keep in such close proximity with yours? And may I tell you of your first encounter? And mine? Yes.
Good. Now, lean in; listen closely.
The story opens with a boy that is perhaps me. Or you...
...He remembered as though it were but a few days ago that winter night, himself too young even to know the meaning of beauty, when he had looked up at a delicate tracery of bare black branches against the icy glittering stars: suddenly something that was, all at once, pain and longing and adoring had welled up in him, almost choking him. He had wanted to tell someone, but he had no words, inarticulate in the pain and glory. It was long afterwards that he realized that it had been his first aesthetic experience. That nameless something that had stopped his heart was Beauty. Even now, for him, 'bare branches against the stars' was a synonym for beauty.
And many years afterwards, he had the privilege of encountering his newborn friend only a few more times. To truly experience another meeting with Beauty was rare, anticipated, and as always, heart stopping.
Perhaps for you, a midnight stroll with Beauty is found soaring above the clouds, or in the excitement of the big city, or in the invigoration of the weight room, or in the electricity of Kyle Field, or in the intrigue of philosophy, or simply in dandelions. But for me, Beauty is clothed in a bit of plaid and possesses a knack for jinxes.
Utterly Bewitched,
Max
4 comments:
That was weird.
Even by my standards.
i liked the last paragraph max. remember when you were an english major?
Not weird, perfect. I totally understand
Max, I don't know exactly what the hell 'bare branches against the stars' is supposed to mean, but don't you ever use that kind of filthy language on this blog again.
I've never stood for such debauchery and I never will.
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