It dawns on her that brilliance is giving form to what already exists, what the observer recognizes, knows in her bone marrow. That brilliance is a conduit to the secrets lurking inside that need to see the light of day so as not to torment, so as not to imprison in an eternal closet.
It dawns on her that poetry — indeed, art — is the most direct crosswalk between mind and body, thought and feeling. It is the string theory that unifies what it means to be human, the key to non-dualism. It excavates and fills in; it airs out the musty, freshens the stale, loosens the stuck, thaws the freezer-burned. It incinerates jealously guarded apprehensions and extinguishes lies. It parts the sea of closely held pain and refills the heart with possibilities.
It dawns on her that she is a part of a lineage, a matrix, a ten-dimensional tornado of force fields. That she is a refuge and a door. That all roads lead to a paradox, and poetry — indeed, art — is a container that holds it. It dawns on her that sobs are no different from laughter, and the line separating sinner from saint is drawn by man. And that she is beauty, and she is beast. And this is how it has always been. Eternal. Whole. One. For the time being.