Gustav Klimt – Life and Death via Art Fixx
Some Nights the World
Some nights… some nights the world is so beautiful it hurts. And you have to unlatch your chest and unhinge the cage of your ribs and take out your own heart. And you wrap it up so carefully – oh the ache of it – and tuck it in a basket and carry it by your side, because you cannot bear the beauty; the wild, unknowable mystery. How it moves and turns inside your body like a ring of blackbirds – spiraling windy revolution. The world is overrun with welling rivers of limpid violin, sustained, alive with light; and with the unthinkable colors of the cosmos in the mirror of a lake in the stills and throb of the landscape of your own marrow. Your bones are full of a thousand oceans and each one is dense with music, ribboned with populations of deep creatures that turn in silent wonder at the resonance and transparent shine of it. Some nights the air in front of you glows. In the spaces between your fingers, in the arcs carved by the movements of your hands, there is an almost perceptible dawning. And you can feel it in your veins and in the roots of your teeth, and in the ends of your fingers. A new thing. A reaching, soaring thing. A thing that, while it is caught in the bramble network of your own nerves and tissue; is also very very much elsewhere. Out doing barrel rolls and flutterkicking through woven fields of fire and fable and nothing. And in the billions upon billions of atoms that make up the nothing.
The air -the invisible, everywhere, all cradling air- is a billion-voiced choir of atoms singing in the swelling breaths of vacant seas. The song it sings is silent and solitary and immense, and thick as life. Lean in and hear the soundless symphony, let your body drink it in; the unplayed notes filling in and winding through all the rough places of your soul until its burnish blinds.
…Some nights the world is not a world at all, but a glimpsed, hot, breathless revelation.