The more you do, the more amazed you are that anything gets done. It feels like a kind of sublime terror, really, in the sense that that sublime notions themselves are an aesthetic paradox (and a moral paradox, and an aesthetico-moral paradox). Caspar David Friedrich or The Music Genome Project, it's all the same to me. It's like…a really big spreadsheet. Well, it's more like the feeling you get when you realize that in order to accomplish a certain task, you're going to have to build a really big spreadsheet. Order out of Chaos or Chaos out of Order, either way. Spreadsheets are sublime. Life is one big Excel file.
(It's possible that coffee after sunset dangersouly affects my mental processes, but perhaps it also further clarifies.)
Isn't that what the whole Ariadne thing is about anyways? The minotaur, and Masson's "Ariadne's Thread"? I guess maybe this is kind of a Surrealist jaunt itself, so why not invoke the muse, but I think that the sublime is a central notion of art and creativity. I wonder if it was around before Romanticism really sprouted, or if our version of "the olden days" is impossibly revisionist. It's fair to say that the sublime has a built in requirement for solitude, if not literally then in the singularity of an experience. The kind of singularity that was most definitely not around in the mead hall or the bacchanal.