Beautiful Tragedy

There are those things which are full of immense beauty and a terrifying depth of tragedy. They reach out and strike us in ways unforeseen, brushing against the emotions we didn't know could be brought to life by such things, and we tremble, unsure whether we are comforted by the beauty, or whether we are merely borne onwards on the tides of tragedy.

Fragility keeps us captivated, drawing us into the grief, the sadness, and the sense of secret places, of loneliness, delicacy; the beauty of the broken hearted. We allow ourselves to be torn and scratched and marked with helpless abandon, for nothing else in our existence can touch us in the same way. Unbidden the tears form in our eyes, and we weep, silently, with more grief that we thought could be summoned. We fear that the sounds of our anguish will break the spell of pulchritude, that instead of seeing something fragile shatter, we shall unleash unprecedented chaos and succumb to terror. For though we dwell in that beautiful sorrow, it bears forth no horror, induces no fear; we are allowed to only feel empathy. Should we sever that connection, we lose that sense of delicacy and we are forced to experience the woe in a manner too painfully, too realistic, for it shall no longer carry within it that beauty.

Thus, silently, observing, and yet feeling everything, we witness the passing of something fragile. And the red breasted robin looks on, curious, the vines grip the wall ever tighter, the rusted iron wrought gate shuts without its normal squeal, and the sun hides behind the clouds, afraid to peek from behind its makeshift curtain, lest it devastate the heartbreaking scene with its rays of happiness. In those moments, we are infinite and minuscule, and tall, proud, but completely broken. And in those moments, we live forever. In those moments, we are the universe.