i know that i will never be able to completely know the ones around me. nor do i expect that anyone might completely understand me. metaphor. my life--a silent space, a void: those around me a brilliant & constantly renewed life. temple-like & pungent with wisdom that does not belong to me. that makes me ache & yearn & sometimes write & also ponder joyously on a grassy sun-filled day & feel butterflies from yesterday too & this is how i constitute my awake as well as dreams.
what is the gift of art, if not the gift of sight. the eyes open to the world and that is an enormous difficult task. but i think that it is precisely such a gift that births artists. for the artist must always witness the constant movement, the countless appearances and disappearances of the world that he's surrounded by: and he knows that everything is worthy of a monument. to be capable of noticing the sweet murmurings is a tremendous gift, as it brings a lot of joy. yet, at the same time, because open eyes are not a matter of choice, the artist is burdened by his inability to shut out the blood of the world's wounds. and because his eyes must always take notice the artist is, at times, forced to contort himself in many different ways, so that he may survive his own witnessing.
& how else to withstand the enormity of such burden, the burden of sight, but to believe that there can only be the grace of others?