To Be an Artist

To be an Artist, you must not exist, have no self-opinion, look to the eyes of others, for the decisions of conclusion, remain invisible, lateral to life outside of the creation. To be an Artist, you create, and must move away and on. But to be an Artist, you must not exist. And if you are an Artist, then you must forget, and be with yourself in the moment of the creation. And to be an Artist, then, you must love, with the purest love, without mirrors, without applause, without acceptance, just a personal acceptance of love, and the art that you create. And you mustn't even call it 'art' it can only be something that 'just is' to you, you being the Artist. These are the secrets of the soul of Art, and then again, they are not.

Answers

History is gone, and all that is left is the present time, and it takes a certain kind of recklessness, and responsibility to be here right now. There are no shadows, nor eyes overlooking. The potential, is the silence within the moment. Fear must be waylaid. The silence seeks its requisite peace, There are no voices that can know the way to speak, and any way, they choose to only speak for themselves, and this is only what our voices can do for us. Sometimes the answer is in the distance, and sometimes, it confronts, Always, there are answers, but not conclusions or comforters. To any question, there are many answers, Perhaps the answer, lies in the question.

Moon

The stark moon in its fullness, firing its way into the nighttime, part of the clothing of the sky, and its a quiet fire, that he fires, and he fires in all of the world, calling on the tide, and calling on us to love, and driving us to our extremes and beyond. There is no escape, acceptance is vital, and then the day escapes, and it seems to believe that it has the power to be able to walk on its own, until darkness dims the day, and then the stark moon in all of its fullness, fires its way into the nighttime.

Beauty

Power of the beauty in the face of the lady, and another, with envy seeks competition, its a losing, winning battle, and valid, and somehow pleasing, And on Talbot Street, I saw her, and she gave me the quest for understanding, and outside of all of us, truth has to deal with beauty, and, you know, truth can be the greatest tyrant, and it lives on the side, and you could say that it is smug within itself, I'm sure that truth, really doesn't care. So one variety of plasticity confronts another, without looking to the eyes, without actually being alive, to the honesty of soul. And ultimately, I know that I am the one to blame, in my search for something, that in an off-moment I would care to call 'beauty.'