an artist’s line

A life ever-changing asks for a common thread.

Pain of unknowing, twisting a mind wanting only to shine.
But in this time it is mine
and mine alone.

I must decide.
How to fight, where to fight, when to fight.
If to fight,
and is it right?

Light and day like day and night,
we stumble in the cave unknowing.
Understanding may never be
and by that time I will have lost who I am,
or who I was.

It doesn’t always feel like growth.
I thought growth was supposed to feel good,
to feel right.
Because otherwise,

what’s the point?

A point is a place along a line
in time.

So maybe the point is not a point, but rather the line.
And if that’s so,
then the line of growth is a trajectory which itself can change,
I suppose.

In the end what will be is the
impression
of a path, uniquely signed in the universe
for its meaning to be interpreted
not only by the artist
but also the observers.

The artist, yes. Art, then.
The point is the path which is art, uniquely mine.

Well, I’d better make it interesting then.