My Musings

accept restless pride genly joining me sense yields stubbornly fleeting love beckon days away

"It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors." Oscar Wilde said it. The art is nothing until it is translated into thought. The significance of the art has its roots in the spectator, and not in the surrounding world or in the art itself. We go through life with the supposition that reality is concrete, that it exists wholly independently as it's true self. The brick, the mortar, that makes up the wall of a home is simply a piece of fired clay stuck to other fired clay by some sand and cement. That is the impersonal reality of it. But is not reality - or what we know of it - just simply the general conclusions which we come to through observation? It is the spectator that gives identity or perspective to existence. Some persons may see the mentioned brick in different ways. One man says it is a brick, nothing more; but another man, an architect perhaps, comprehends the vital purpose that the particular brick - and every other brick - fulfils in the struc

You'll wait for nothing time crossed the reward end cloud and rain longest drought done tonight

Faintly scented breeze sways trees entraptured eyes hidden below shadowed forms pressed together lovers bearing light within

dark sadness ending heavy current reminds renew desire you opened come visit friend Memories