The Burden of Beauty

The peacock can barely fly.

It lives at lower levels, consoling itself with its great beauty.

A creature so burdened by the display it built to impress another that it can no longer do the basic thing that other birds are easily able to.

Walking around close to the ground, it is spectacular yet unable to rise to the heights its soul was meant for. The weight of the beauty took away its freedom.

This desperate need to create something beautiful, is it just elaborate vanity?

Is it what robs us of deeper & higher experiences?

For, though the peacock has the most beautiful feathers, it simply can not fly…

(Thoughts triggered by / borrowed from Westworld)

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