It is sufficiently visible that beauty is the salvation of the human soul, at the moment I am faced with something that Van Gogh himself would fall in love with; this feeling deserves to be felt and not banished. Schopenhauer would hate me.
I don't deserve to describe this event perfectly. My writing seems to lead to absurdity: How can something beautiful affect me so much? I have my sincere doubts. The fact is that Art saves moments. I believe I am finally understanding the meaning of such an expression.
Is the beautiful that which would attract two men for a single apparent reason: its totality, its harmony and its grandeur? In fact, the beautiful is something created by God himself, and this is not visible to your eyes? A single reason for forgiveness can be described at this point: Almighty God creates a perfect world and its beauty is accessible to our eyes and simple touch.
Life and death they are conditions of our being, they balance on a weak rope about to break, but what solace can I find at this moment? The mystery of immortality is like the arrival of spring, discreet and certain. Even so, it is impossible to be consoled by such.
It can be said that, by reason of such an expression, the value that is assigned to his eyes is what might be called the supreme consolation. Don't treat me indifferently like what was said by the ancients as nature's indifference to death. Is birth to die? Interesting: nature proves me otherwise.
The emptiness of my existence is nullified by such lilies. I believe that God himself was responsible for such a creation. Unlike Schopenhauer and Camus, I am not an atheist. I believe that both would change their minds when contemplating such a phenomenon. I believe that Schopenhauer would embrace Christian metaphysics and Camus would change the style of his existentialism.
I wish that just one night, such a beautiful one would direct his thoughts to a not-too-distant future and find me huddled in my thoughts writing such letters to my departed lily.
If there is a beautiful, as said and taught by St. Augustine, I would like it to be her, but countless critics would condemn me by going through different styles in milliseconds. Dear lilies, I will end my suffering wishing to meet you. May the Almighty God question fate for such a fault he committed me.
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But the question is: would you be waiting for me to finish these writings to ask how I feel about you?
