Aloneness

Mankind’s long and weary quest is a chaotic, convex-shaped cast that has tried to fit itself into our lonely, concave void. It is a beautifully hideous mess in which humanity has imprinted its story, embossed by all its grievances, its fits, and its manic desperation to somehow answer the unanswerable. Mankind is still alone. Who could fill man’s aloneness? What could occupy the vacuity of his mortality?

And so it is that he has filled it with gods and theologies, with verses and lyrics, and with the unremitting strokes of brushes. He has filled it with other beings, with chiselled rocks and buildings,

with houses of the eternal. He has filled it with joyous dance and the fine weaving of vibrating molecules into symphonies.

His propensity for beauty can only be derived from the ultimate depths of his aloneness. And it is indeed here that we see that aloneness is never far from beauty.

In his ability to perceive it, man harbours the eternal doubt that beauty as such, was ever meant for him alone. The perfection of the Garden of Eden, prior to the arrival of man in the ancient narrative, is one of imperfection; for in all its pristine wildness and beauty, it lacked the very thing that would complete it, and yet would hold the power to ruin it. It lacked a beholder. Beauty itself was lonely.

It posed in all its purity and colour. It impressed majestically, wildly, even violently, but ultimately, it impressed alone.