Saturday, May 11, 2013

The Sensucht of Birthdays

Birthdays. Is it not just one more year in which you are closer to your eventual and guarrenteed demise? Or looked at in another way, a gift that you are being reminded of on a particular day, the day that you entered fearful yet curious into a gigantic museum in which hung paintings you found beautiful and some you found hideous, sculptures you wished to embrace and those you recoiled from, galleries that thrilled you with landscapes you wished to enter, and those of tedium you wished to escape. But in all the gift was a free pass unbidden to this place where you became drawn toward the true Artist who painted all those things that you desired more than anything else. You found in them that Sensucht or 'inconsolable longing' that would eventually be satisfied and this thing you call a birthday was just yet one more museum sign that pointed you to the most beautiful of the galleries where not only the greatest paintings resided in all their brilliant form and color, but most profoundly the great Artist Himself to which all of it---you see now---pointed.

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