Devotement.

If I was able to paint it, even the gods would render praise to it.
If I was able to sing of it, even a stone would start crying.
And if I was able to write a poem on it, I wouldn’t write this instead.

No matter the circumstances, it sometimes surprises me still and fills me with wonder. It sneaks up to me through a book, song, film; Through a bright thought or the pure simplicity of something I see passing by outside the window while sitting in the train.
In the book I read last week, the author (Hermann Hesse) talks about deep, satisfying happiness as the goal of life, about humbleness and dedication to oneself and the people one loves as source of greatest contentment.
And how could anyone doubt that? Is there anything more fulfilling than fully savouring the scale of emotions we can evoke within ourselves?
The sorrow-evoking clarity of deep love, the silent admiring of even the smallest details in everyday life and the mental incomprehension of its extend?
Oh how meaningless I feel considering the size of the world, and how much I enjoy being a part of the big secret picture still! And how painfully I use to regret not being able to convey the pictures inside of me to any other soul exactly the way I see them.
From greatest satisfaction springs melancholy, yet from greatest sorrow the most silent joy.

- Here’s to beauty
and its immortality!

I.S., 02.12.2010