I think that to nearly any other person in the world, it would hardly be a memorable day, but I seem to revel in celebrating the non-descript. There is a problem then in attempting to capture the overwhelming beauty of what others take to be meaningless, and I run the risk of sounding like a fool (a role, thankfully, that I am used to playing). I suppose that's the way it’s always going to be; what's intensely memorable to me can seem to be laughably trivial when spelt out in words. No matter how powerfully persuasive one’s writing is, there are always some things that transcend succinct encapsulation. This is especially true with matters of a spiritual nature, which, as anyone who knows me will tell you, is how I occupy most of my time.

There have been numerous occasions when I've tried to assert that there is so much beauty in this world for one to appreciate, yet I've never been totally convincing, even to myself. I’m quite certain that nearly everything in this fair world can strike my imagination on a particular day, and make me so struck with it that I am inspired to express myself, such as with this piece of writing. This is understanable enough, but what's perilous about it is that I put myself in a particularly vulnerable position every time I attempt to open up and speak of beauty. It's true that these expressions are the result of some truly profound moment in my day that really speaks to me, and as such I tend to hold them close to my heart. As such, when such powerful sentiments are put into writing, by making a false step in my writing, it is as though I am blighting the sentiment itself!

I sometimes think it all very odd though, when at some arbitrary point of the day my mind drifts and begins to focus on the curious matters of life. Whether or not this foible is shared by the rest of the world I’ll never know, but it does make me ponder how others perceive me. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve sat staring aimlessly into space, filling my mind with strange, fanciful notions, and suddenly becoming aware of this. At these points, I look at the faces around me, and wonder whether anyone would believe that the person they see in front of them is capable of such thoughts. I wonder whether they'd believe that I am capable of viewing the world in the way I do, with an almost detached air of curiosity. Admittedly, I can't see anyone else think like I do.

On this particular day, I don’t remember much of what ensued in my morning and evening. It must have been sometime before lunch that I started to feel genuinely content. Lord help me if I sound out of my mind, but it was as though for a moment I saw my place in this universe, and gladly accepted it. Rationally reconsidering such a statement would of course lead me to state it was little more than some nebulous philosophizing, yet that would be inaccurate; as I mentioned earlier, there is an element of futility in discussing these things.

A waft of gentle breeze greeted me, and played on my eyes for a while. Temporarily distracted, I looked out the window and was greeted by a tranquil blue sky. I realize it sounds overly dramatic if I say that I saw the infinite capacity for beauty in the world, but that is in fact the truth. I told myself that there was a point to it all, and that it is beauty. I took out a book, having an intuition that this was the perfect atmosphere to read, and with the hope that the words would carry special meaning. The first page read:

"But every man is not only himself; he is also the unique, particular, always significant and remarkable point where the phenomena of the world intersect once and for all and never again. That is why every man's story is important, eternal, sacred; and why every man while he lives and fulfils the will of nature is a wonderful creature, deserving the utmost attention"

At that point, it didn’t matter just what was being said. No, all that really mattered was the spirit of it all, the soft, subdued yet overwhelming force that was exuding out of it. The ghost of Huxley reminded me not to take art too seriously, and I nodded, but there I was on an entirely different level of appreciation. The words sprung off the page as though they were being written at the very time I was reading them! I was reminded of another old friend who managed to capture my precise feelings at the time:

"And each and every one of them words rang true and glowed like burning coal,
Pouring off of each page, like it was written in my soul"

Through one of my fictional creations, I once remarked indirectly that I hadn’t cried in a long, long time, but when I said that I had associated crying with sadness. But thinking about that little window of time where everything fit into its place, I think I can come close to shedding a tear of joy. Again, I come off as overly dramatic and far too romantic to be taken seriously, but with matters so close to my heart, I find it hard to be any other way.