It's not. It's there even when you're not looking. Just as the sound of a fallen tree does not depend our ears, when I close my eyes to beauty it makes a sound.
Have you ever looked into the fog, unable to see a single object on the ground, but if you cast your eyes upwards, not trying to see the mere ground objects but rather trying to behold the majesty, you find that the sky is now a piercingly bright white. Back there behind all of the mist of today either this afternoon or tomorrow morning's sun. Which still leaves a valid question - have we passed noon, or shall we mourn tomorrow? Which leaves open a contradiction - will the sun shine kindly or intensely for me when the fog has lifted? On the one hand, the stronger your sunlight the quicker the fog will dissipate, but perhaps then I will sear and scorch in your rays if I beg further for them to touch me now. On the other hand, perhaps at its current rate, when the fog passes night will have fallen. And is there any hope for me in the dark? Are you there with Bruno, on the other side of the moon, casting light upon it so that I can navigate this ocean? Or am I left to keep guessing with the dim and distant north star?
When you walk with your chin up, you realize there are so many questions floating up there in the sky. When you walk, rather, in a sulken matter, there is only this step, and next step, this step, then one after. Less questions but less answers. Not the kind of atmosphere that brings peace to a philosopher. And what joy is there watching the sidewalk squares pass along, anticipating their end. No, the beauty is out there whether I have the courage to look for it or not. If I want to see it I need to remember that the eye of the beholder is filled with fire not water.
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