Softer than air it starts. Stirring emotion ever so gently, leading me on into a labrynth of ecstasy. Some might opine that music reveals the heart of the composer or poetry the poet. That may be. It mayn't too. I believe that music, when it touches me, reveals not its maker but myself to myself. It reflects my traumas and on recognising them I am comforted into a peace which may be temporary, but it is fulfilling - like biting into a juicy jamun or inhaling the arresting aroma of a night jasmine.
I believe that true art, great art, is wrenched from the depth of suffering. Imagine, when you look deep enough inside you, pushing aside all the webs of acquired emotional detritus, there abides a terrible beauty at your core waiting to be rescued. Alas, most of us are dwarfs who are so bedazzled by its momentary sheen that we allow our useless accumulations to fall back, happy to feed upon that fleeting instance of bliss.
The burden of mortality becomes bearable under the light of such brilliant glimpses of introspection.
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