The Beauty of an Idea
Often he is fascinated by ideas he falls in love with. They appear so poetic, beautiful, and pure, so right, desirable, and clear— as if they were here on earth like grapes hanging in the air, ready to be plucked; one only has to decide which.
These ideas, with their essence, sometimes spread like brushfires and burn everything else away. People speak of nothing else. They chew the grape again and again, break it open, chew it once more, swallow and retch. It can take weeks, months, years before it is finally excreted.
And while they vomit and chew, they writhe, contort, and distort themselves, erupting now and then into jubilant praise when they catch their breath—celebrating their new existence.
The grape has lost all flavor, is no longer recognizable as a grape, yet everyone calls what they have vomited sweet wine.
But often, one plucks a grape in silence, in love with its shape, intoxicated by its taste, filled with bliss. One chews and chews again; the path changes, and the idea becomes real. The road turns rocky and gray, the sadness grows large. A glimmer of sunlight flashes far away—also a radiant blue.
Oh. One wouldn’t have thought so.
