The ascetic life is appealing to me. As a person who is constantly confounded by life’s daily rituals, living simply and having a constant single-tracked routine is one that I dream of.
But unfortunately, I also dream of other lives. One where I am not trapped in the corner of life I have accidentally painted myself into.
As I come into myself late into the evenings, when the waters of my brain are still clear enough to see through, I am forced to come face to face with the ancient frustrations that have stared into the depths of humanity since the awareness of mortality had reached the shores of the psyche.
It is hard to not be fearful when that piercing glare reaches through us past our skin, almost threatening the fabric of our very being. It questions everything, including the validity of our work, and its purpose, while trying to stay afloat while the waters of our own despair rise. Are we powerless to stop it?
What is art? Who is an artist?
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