On Infinity, or the Pursuit of Loveliness

A quiet thought spun out of a quiet night sometime in this past quiet week: the pursuit of loveliness.

I am always coming back to lovely. It is, inevitably, a word that saturates my vocabulary, that I weave into any situation & conversation: the slowness & warmth & malleability of it, a funny romantic sort of notion that I do so adore rummaging into. Loveliness. It is this: the grace. And courage. Kindness. Softness. Love, always love. The loveliness of loving. Of—living. Whatever fickle, fluttering definition it may have.

The pursuit of loveliness.

How every breath is a work of art.

Here is the truth: that our souls sometimes do not know what it means to be caged. Perhaps this is where all of the anxiety comes from, the depression. How our heads & our hearts forget that they are parts of the same machine & begin to snarl at each other. Partaking generously in each other's destruction &, eventually, their own.

Like all wild things, sometimes they bite.

Like all alive things, sometimes they bite each other.

So a falling, a drowning: perhaps the shittiness is an infinite thing.

And then, a resurrection of sorts: perhaps the loveliness is, too.

I have yet to wrap my head around the concept of permanence. Sixteen years, I believe, is not nearly enough to examine time in all of its length & breadth (though perhaps even the oldest human could hardly comprehend the magnificent resonance of a clock's second hand).

I think there is perhaps something infinite, though, in all of the shitty stuff. In the anxiety. The sadness. The loss, & the things that are lost, the ones that cannot reappear. Stuff wasted. Minds broken. Heart-stuff gone.

And yet: a (strange) loveliness, an (unprecedented) loveliness, too. Of the weathering, the withering of it all.

I am beginning to wrestle with the notion that my mental disorders will not go away. Perhaps ever—or, at least, not for a very long time. It is a difficult infinity to realise. It is not one I want to realise. It is one I am only beginning to realise.

But if there is any infinity, it is this: life. It will go on.

And: I am learning that there is more to infinity than the shitty stuff. There is loveliness, too. And there is an infinity in that. And the act of choice: today is a sad day. But I will choose to pursue loveliness anyway.

Even with the shitty stuff, we can choose. We have the choice. And the reverberation in that. And the freedom. And act of acknowledging our boundaries only to find the paths around them. And the way we choose to pursue loveliness even when it skitters away from us. To teach our minds & our hearts the kindness they have forgotten to feed each other. To give ourselves the benefit of the doubt, again & again, mistake after mistake. This is the pursuit of loveliness. Even on the bad days, it is the action of stepping back & choosing the right infinity to follow.

This is what I mean, & this is what I am learning:

There is loveliness. And there is the choice to pursue it. And these are the only infinities.

And here it is: all of the shitty stuff & the lovely stuff wrapped into one, suffused & dripping with a light that perhaps we will never know how to name. That softness, fierce delicacy. Of being friends with both the stormclouds & the sunlight. The savouring of the loveliness, & the spreading it into the magnificent, endless universe, & the knowing of the pursuit, so close: only an infinite, resonant clock-tick away.