On Beauty, Art, Existence, and Death

The beauty, strength, and presence of nature which exists in the darkest and most depressing places. Even with the vile around you, nature must still exist. It can take forms of wretched, pure evil, but it must still exist. With nature, there is beauty, within the horrible and the miserable, there is a never ending, unstoppable beauty to it all. You can look upon anything and see the realness to it, the pure and raw effort that the universe has created and folded into a microscopic paper, an origami crane, in order to unfold before you at any given moment and give you the joy of existence. The beauty of rotten meat. Who dares look into the darkest and deepest pits of hell, where there are great mountains of fire and rivers of blood, where there are limbless trees which scrape across a blackened sky, and call it anything but beautiful? Who dares look into the void of heaven and the resurrection of death and see the absolute glory inside of it, the power of nonexistence? The beauty of never existing at all, and the power and holiness of never existing, like an infinitesimal number of souls have not. Purgatory is filled with them, in their large ivory towers of glass and their unending windows, looking out over the world, looking out over the universe, seeing the beauty and eternal finite history of everything, while in the eternal dream of the nonexistent and the unthinking. There is a world for all those souls who have nowhere else to go. There is a land they come together to raise hands, to love one another, to kiss and feel and be a part of themselves and everything around them, somewhere that we will never know because we know of this life and this existence, this real, this physical universe of pure and total manifestation which binds us and traps us, limits us, and spits us out when we die. These walking bodies of rubber skin and bones of steel and moving gears that propel us forward, that fear of death and the unknown which keeps us in constant motion, we have been ripped out of the dreamstate and placed in these contraptions to live in fear of the unknown and then inevitably join into it, gather ourselves and meet with the millions of others unknown and anonymous. This creation of ourselves we plant on earth, this art we create to mark a footprint of our own godlihood, our temporary companionship, out strain and struggle and good fortune and good will and the pride we inflict on ourselves and other people to hold us back together to create and enjoy and engulf each other in love and flames and happiness and boredom and disease and death until it is all gone from our minds and later it is all gone from our hands, our words, our libraries, our memories and our being. We are created, gifted, grafted onto this place and then removed. The thought revoked, the distance shortened and our passage completed, for we may have never been meant to come here on this planet, pulled onto this world and placed in mortality, we may have been meant to float endlessly eternally in the infinite void of sleep and nothingness, and the experience we gain, is it real if we return to the same place? It is our home. It is our home, and we are all homesick and longing to return, our souls long to return which is why we all carry around the look of deep mourning and sadness, the pain in everybody’s gaze. There is not one person who does not feel like they are displaced far away from home, taken away and put somewhere they do not belong. I love the animals here, and I love the plants, and god damnit if anybody tries to hurt them for no reason I will call them evil. It is so easy to see the selfishness we take upon ourselves when we don’t realize this is all just a temporary placement, and truly meaningless to the very core of our beings we are nothing and we will return to nothing, dust to dust, ash to ash, standing on a bed of flowers and sand, and the flood of the unexplored universe will come and wash us away in time, and our footprint will be small but our days here, our hours awake and our small moments will seem like they hold so much realness and importance, because they are the greatest minority one could experience, the rarest and most valuable thing in the universe is the gift of individual experience, and we are lucky to be blessed with such. It is a great fortune we must never shy away from or forget. It is what completes us and builds us down to the very structure, the very fiber of our being, completes us and totals us, and then and only then can we let it go. I do not believe in religion. I do not believe in Gods. I think we love to make stuff up, like how we all used to have ghosts in the closets or imaginary friends. The idea of something larger than reality is an intriguing story to us, but there is no such thing. Reality is all we have, we are all children to the sweeping power of nonexistence. That is our only God, our one true God, the God of all things nothingness. That is where we will return. We are stragglers who have ventured away from this fact of life, and we will all find our way back to it eventually. For this here, this life, this is an anomaly. This is not supposed to happen. We need to find our way back. Suicide, in a sense, is a beautiful thing. A death in the ocean. Let's all go back there. The forest is a place no one has ever explored before, and yet we all have the ability to go there. We must all be ready to let this life go, and venture forward. With outstretched hands.

Not sure how to take this as a whole. I hope this is an exploration, a mind trip that you embarked on, and not something one would be dwelling on more personally.

Re Beauty and aesthetics. There is beauty in nature, in happiness of a living being, even a darker beauty in a lava flow or a volcanic eruption or a melancholic beauty of a landscape ruined by an asteroid impact.

A point of contention, however, would be the body horror, the grotesque. It seems abominable. I can't sense beauty in it. It seems like it is an opposition to it.

I think aesthetics are linked to human sense of morality in a way.
How can we find a happiness of a dolphin or a cat beautiful if not for the understanding of where it comes from and its relation to how we perceive the world?

What you’ve written reads like a modern meditation on mortality and consciousness. That tension between the beauty and the horror of existence is something philosophers have explored for centuries. You might find resonance in Camus or even ancient Stoic thought. There’s value in recognizing life’s absurdity without surrendering to it