Adagio For Strings

And there I sat, cross legged and weeping on my kitchen floor with a partially clean pot in my left hand. All at once I was vulnerable and weak, so insignificant in the vastness of beauty itself. It was as if Beauty had somehow manipulated the air, forcing my lungs to rise and fall at the whim of a foreign substance. They constricted, knowing that this fleeting moment was not meant to be experienced within the bounds of earthly time.
My hands shook along with my seemingly broken spine, my mortality shattered in an instant. I had left the confines of my skin in that moment, recognizing the fragile state of all the swirled around me. The pot eventually fell from my hand as the music climaxed, the string symphony mourning aloud unabashedly. This was it. This was what it felt like to be completely, exhaustively free.
I dried my face with a dish rag as the music ceased, still with both amazement and fear.
May art always move me to unbidden weeping. May God continue to fascinate me with my own, pitiful, humanity.