My pleasure in solitude. Others think of me as foolish, childish, silly, weak. But to think this weakness as against my own will, when in truth it is with my will. I am one content enough to think this at all because in my own self is so great a resource.
As Kant says…”the sublime is limitless, so limitless.” The mind in the presence of the sublime, attempting to imagine what it cannot- it feels pain in the failure but pleasure too in contemplating the immensity of the attempt.
There is happiness in accepting the fact of the inevitable natural.
The sublime nature of my being dependent, on humans, on nature, on earth, while in solipsism. The contemplation of this sublime something in the soul, yet I cannot exist without relation to a something outside my soul. The power and accompanying sorrow of being able to contemplate without nature, so amazing it is, an immense and humbling task-where reason lags behind, unable to keep up..
Feeling nothing in the face of the violence of nature…yet a restoration of perspective. In comparison with a storm of nature the familiar irritants of daily life seem less insignificant.
Sublime is not just in art or nature, but in my singular existence…. On a daily basis, I am confronted with ideas of eternal grandeur. Music calculated to make me feel a part of the whole of humanity, the furniture I interact with a coagulation of the world and its many inhabitants, a book the culmination of all human civilization past, present, and future…
Posted 10:16PM 2016.10.08
Painting by Joseph Mallord William Turner, “Snow Storm – Steam-Boat off a Harbour’s Mouth“, exhibited 1842