On the Surface Simplicity

 

Poetry untangles and hides within the simplicity of prose. In the crannies of linearity rumbles underneath the incoherent, unsophisticated language of pure humanity, filtering up through meshes of custom. Edges rounded now, floats the perfect, intellectually polished orb with a dying centre. A dead thing, an implication, a symbol to infer. 

The watering down of art resumes. In the smart lines of a clear image is more pleasure to those who cannot taste the free form of feeling. The raw experience remains unexperienced by those who need it most. On the other hand, the forced effect of rawness makes for the most rigid and soulless replicas of things so fluid and free. Whoever feels never an urge to create remains unable to distinguish. 

Until one encounters beauty in a sense other than what one learned is, becomes utterly enthralled by things not once thought to be beautiful and fully believes in their beauty, and be at peace with the microscopic gestures and rituals of admiration, resulting effects of discovery, art which is beyond any aesthetic obligations, all encompassing of the human experience, remains a shallow concept which we claim to know and understand, remains a defined element ironically used to resist definition.