Art

By a vague sense, that art, at least, of all things, matters, I am driven on. So that any time spent on my own survival, seems secondary, or even less, to the nth, in rank of importance, and therefore, in rank of what I should be doing. “Important” being that vague smokescreen behind which all of my not-too-fleshed-out philosophy hides. Spending time meanwhile, I grumble about my survival duties in the day, snatching what moments I can in the night, to blurt out art that comes during or after dreams. Reluctant to wipe the sleep out of my eyes and go about the day, I always say, “When I don’t have to work anymore …” That’ll be the day. When I can finally make it. When I’ll have enough time. When I’ll … what? I don’t know if I could tell you in specifics. But I think, truly, there will be a great void to meet me, when that day comes. And I am better off shoving my art into the small crannies in the meantime. Because that might end up being all that I’ll ever get.