Some moments are still. Happy. Or moving, but still happy. Content. Everything fits, fine. The world is in perfect harmony and Apollo looks over all, with ease.
And yet it so often seems that there is always a Dionysian chaos waiting around the corner. Ready to consume you, and you, powerless to stop it. Can you resist? Can you scramble back up the ladder and hide again from the chaos, withdraw back into perfect harmony, sleep off the beating hearts?
None of it makes sense when the sun is shining: The sun is shining. There should be no chaos. Only perfection. I should feel at peace. I should feel no turmoil. I should be blind to it, because it does not need to exist. The path should be clear in such brilliance.
But, the clouds roll over. The room goes dark. You look out the window and see the first specks of rain darken the stone outside. You anticipate the thunder, and suddenly you give in to the weight of your heart. You see no way to resist the call of mindless Becoming. Dionysus in all his rage finds you, and you collapse in obedience to his will.
No insight can help you now. The memory of the sunlight cannot bring back your clarity of mind. You must give in. You have no choice, though your insides are screaming to free you from such blind and dark passions. Born into recklessness. The only way out of it is through it. The casualties, unknown.
The Birth of Tragedy.
