Consider it to be axiomatic that whenever and however beauty is encountered, it will precipitate a crisis. Beauty invariably constitutes a kind of emergency; this is its nature as something fleeting and vanishingly rare yet deeply, longingly needed.
Every encounter with beauty lays bare the blizzard of lies that a person tells themselves day after day after day; only the indictments handed down by truth remain.
In such moments, the urge is to strip all of life and its endless artifice away entirely and begin to build again from the start.
Since this generally cannot happen, beauty becomes a haunting, a loss, a failure of redemption, an unfinished pilgrimage whose promise will forever remain the stuff of dreams and hazy recollections.
That which is beautiful, in other words, is also that which signifies one’s own end, with a clarity and inevitability that leaves one stunned.
Experiencing beauty is equivalent to seeing one’s life pass before one’s eyes. It is a nostalgic and fulfilling and harrowing and most of all wistful experience.