A painting, a song, a perfect set of sentences strung together to make a story that stands the test of time. Something that says a thing so well, it resonates backward and forward in time, eternity in a paragraph. Rare are the colors, the melody, the words, art when it happens, beauty when it’s right.
Art is only a reflection of life formed to give one a glimpse of what life has the potential to be. Created to ease the suffering of the masses, to give hope and meaning to the family of man. Who knows from what dark secret corner of the mind it does flow?
Art is not life, beauty can not conquer reality, they exist and struggle to compensate for life’s horrors. The world moves on, starvation gains ground, genocide is carried out. Hitler lived, Jim Jones died taking many with him. Women, children and the world are raped and abused as the artist paints a better painting. The elderly die forgotten and lonely as the writer writes his love. The sick and dying of the world are doing so with a song on their lips.
Writing is a sacrifice to your soul. Rare is the success that gains fame or fortune. Maybe success is merely that one sentence that changes the world for the briefest of moments. Those moments may come only after the artist is long dead. The chance is worth the price. Where does the artist pay? When does he pay? He pays a little every time he sees the truth hidden in plain view, every time he pulls a small piece of beauty from that truth, a piece of beauty that he sees even as the ugliness and inconsistencies of life continues to prevail.
Art is not life, but life is hidden deep within it. Life is not art, but we few, must strive to forge the two, to hide the horror, to sooth the soul of man. Death is our destiny, to smile is our dream, peace is our hope, but life, life is our reality. Art fights on with little chance of winning, but it’s the fight that counts.