My chief consternation with life isn’t the black hole of death, but knowing that I will only be present to a miniscule amount of the massive amount of beauty resident in our world.

No amount of positive psychology can make up for the beauty unseen, it can only support the relatively little beauty that joy springs upon us, in our blip of an existence on this mortal plane.

Memory of the beautiful is never the same thing as being present and that is perhaps the most cruelest twist of fate, that our sense of being present becomes a past the moment we notice it.

As for dwelling one part of our being creating a future, it too disrupts the present because what memory does for the past, vision does for the future — or said otherwise — it is damn difficult thing to create the future in the present moment, yet that so happens the best possible place to create it.

Life constantly arranges everything as art and we keep on looking for this “best of it” — when the best of it happened to flash away constantly before our eyes and we seldom present ourselves to it — but it is refreshing when our senses stop feeding our brains information and we have “moments”.

Art must be the greatest ever litter place of moments because so much is available under its voluminous name. One type of art makes this so, which is the practice of modern art. How we become high valuing collectors of stuff. Then again, I wouldn’t mind being the owner of an appreciating investment.

What we can’t possibly collect is every atom of beauty that is permanently outside our sensory systems but we can make do with those same senses, the meditative value of the present — where at least the meditative lasts.

Our greatest hangups should be the extent of beauty we will never see, just as we only get to see an infinitesimal tiddy-bit of the multiverse. Shame then that our greatest hangsup seem often to be how others view the world, especially when we become ignorant that we too are “the other”.

We could easily be united by the art that is in everything because even the greatest level of difference contains its own art, whether that horrify us or please us. Art as “everything” around us is our chief gain, even when know this idea of the present is more fleeting than fleeting.

If the role of art is to make us think, then we think too much.

[Em]