memory and beauty

It's strange what happens between the echoes of analogy and the mysteries of humanity. The words spoken in unspoken dialects in rooms without walls. It seems the echoes anger demons within patterns, the signs of weakness. Thoughts full of empty calories. A sight, a memory of a girl, an event, an organization, a location in time. Why do these things mean so much. To the untrained eye, it is nostalgia, passage, growth, tradition. The carefree years wrought with worry, meaningless but constrictive. A time where you could ignore the horrors of humanity, or at least try to. A time when you could step outside the injustice, the corruption, the sad nature of reality. I'm standing on the threshold of pain and sorrow, the corner of complacence and complaisance. Slipping...

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Sometimes I wonder where beauty comes from. It's... strange. It follows no rules. I can't tell anymore. In a manner I've ruined myself. I've thought too much. I've lost much of the grasp of impulse, chaos, the irrational, and I guess that's why I often find it beautiful, but no, because that is not all that is beautiful. There is no logic to it, but I suppose that's why I cannot grasp it, because I try to. Some things simply are.. and some things must find their way to you. I've told myself this a million times over, I've tried to force this logic upon myself. Heh, a bit of a contradiction, that I must force upon my self the logic to not try to force logic.