Som'lorea

It is an interesting thing attempting to condense the essence of a singular–yet fully encompassing–aspect of life. I have felt many times that there is something of an onus on writers/recorders to accurately portray what is true; and in some cases, to grow the awareness of others towards it. This is limited, in reality, since no one man or woman may understand all things, but it seems important, nonetheless.

There is difference in those who write for the purpose of beauty, or even of “art”, and those who record what is fact–even though some blur the lines, as has been suggested of Livy. The one who writes for beauty is able to write what they find beautiful, whether there is a more objective beauty to be had in it or not. Some find self-expression to be beautiful, as is the case with many in the modern era, while others may find the outward life to possess a much richer and grander narrative, loving the blessings therein.

For those who find self-expression beautiful, there is no guiding principle of their writing, or other medium, other than that which they find within themselves. Yet, for the one who observes the outward life and its delights, they are held to a stricter law; it is obvious that there is only one “blue” and only one “green”. Though there may be some small deviation in shade, the likeness of our design enables each of us to relate to one another by these laws, allowing us to appreciate what is common to each of us. This is why both the one who loves God–or many gods–and the one who does not, have a love for what they find before them–it is as if we are children before the greatest sandbox that ever was.

For the one who writes fact, however, they are more like the one who writes of the beauties of the outward life than the one who writes of the thoughts of the inward life. They do sit, after all, nearest the children most central to the sandbox, who find pleasure in the commonness of their being, seeing fit to work together towards their objective–there must always be one or two among them who finds their endeavors fascinating enough to record them. If there was not, much would be lost of our libraries. Whether it is good or evil, humanity has always loved the building of things. Though one may build, another destroys; yet the love of greatness still compels us, like a boat driven on by the wind, towards endless, ineffable seas.

In consideration of these things, it is apparent why it is difficult to portray even one thing, such as stillness, in the brevity of a short discourse. One may say “what stops the hand from writing more?”, without knowing the proverb which says: Of making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness of the flesh. Even to write of many things in brevity is as the same as writing of one thing in great detail; so, the runner must know their race.