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Please note that the text below was written by the feeling-being ‘Peter’ while ‘he’ lived in a pragmatic
(methodological), still-in-control/same-way-of-being Virtual Freedom before becoming actually free. |
Beauty
Beauty: That quality or characteristic which
excites an admiring pleasure, or delights the eye or the aesthetic sense; a grace, charm or pleasing excellence. Oxford Dictionary
Peter: Beauty is a feeling with a diametric opposite of ugliness, exactly as
awe is the opposite of dread and love is the opposite of hate. The feeling of beauty is also very often associated with sorrow as in a
bitter-sweet piquancy. In fact much of the beauty of music, literature and art that we regard as ‘classics’ are those that evoke the most
pathos and heart-tugging sorrow.
Beauty is often valued as pointing to the Truth, exactly as ‘elegance’ is in
philosophy and mathematics. The Divine and Beauty are inextricably linked as are Evil and Ugliness, and mark the extremes of the emotional
swings of instinctual passion and whimsical imagination.
Beauty is but ‘my’ affective interpretation of the innate purity of the actual.
There is neither beauty nor ugliness in the actual world – only purity and perfection. This purity and perfection is available, as an
on-going, sensate-only experience for anyone willing to free themselves from the insidious grip of see-sawing emotions generated by the
instinctual passions. The actual world, the fairy tale-like world as-it-is, is converted into an imperfect world by the alien entity within.
This entity, gathering information via the senses, translates these data with an already distorted mind-set, into what it calls reality. By
identifying as ‘me’, the entity, ‘I’ can never experience the purity of the actual world. At best ‘I’ can experience it as being
beautiful. Purity far excels beauty for purity has never known sorrow and never will.
Beauty is generated by ‘me’, who lives in a self-induced pathetic sorrow, and
who has been taught to love its piquancy ... which is why beauty can be so evocative as to bring a tear to the eye. So deeply immersed in this
sad reality are some people, that they valiantly extol the virtues of the beauty of pathos by writing songs, poetry, symphonies, operas and
epic novels about it. These are revered by the patrons of the ‘real world’ and are known as ‘The Classics’. So beloved are they that
they are compulsorily taught to children – the newest recruits to a benighted humanity.
The ‘real world’ is about the most dismal interpretation that humanity could
come up with in its conclusions as to what it is to be human. It is an interpretation in which, as is tacitly agreed by all, sorrow will ever
remain sacrosanct. This ‘real world’ conclusion shapes each and every moment’s interpretation into a seeming ‘victory’ over sorrow by
venerating its bitter-sweet beauty. This beauty, which strums and tugs at the heart-strings so piquantly, has always found its fullest
expression in the areas of Art, Religion and Spirituality ... areas which are, in each and every culture, three of the most lucrative
businesses in the market-place of humankind.
The purity of the actual world owes its excellence to the fact that it never knows sorrow. When the
psychological and psychic entity is seen for the parasite it is, it can cease to exist. Then I am the sense organs: this seeing is me, this
hearing is me, this tasting is me, this touching is me, this smelling is me, and this thinking is me. Whereas ‘I’, the entity, am inside
the body: looking out through ‘my’ eyes as if looking out through a window, listening through ‘my’ ears as if they were microphones,
tasting through ‘my’ tongue, touching through ‘my’ skin, smelling through ‘my’ nose, and thinking through ‘my’ brain. Of course
‘I’ must feel isolated, alienated, alone and lonely, for ‘I’ am cut off from the magnificence of the actual world – the world
as-it-is. ‘I’ am condemned to live everlastingly in the land of sorrow, forever lamenting ‘my’ fate. ‘I’ am eternally separate from
the benignity of the actual, where the utter absence of any sorrow at all is infinitely more rewarding than the deepest, the most profound,
beauty there is in the ‘real world’.
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