The art of art, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of letters is simplicity. Nothing is better than simplicity.
-Walt Whitman


If I were to make a collage of my life, you would find a collection of beauty and all its hideousness, imperfections, malice, glimpses of the many burstings of laughter, the innocence of my four year old mind, the occasional shouts of hate and my desperate moments of purging my soul from all things foul. My suffering and hopes, my failures and victories. Enlightening strokes of transcendental portrayals of spirituality as well as those shadows of despair and loathsome worthlessness and the corruption of my hand feeding my mind those dark poisons that choke self-esteem, self-love, worth and purity. The artist is genius. The work remarkable. And like the work itself, the artist will gnaw and grind the teeth at every imperfection and inadequacy they detect and at times will beam ear to ear recognizing the grandeur splendid-ness of their own masterpiece. In their eyes, the work is never complete and so the brush goes on to stroke upon angles upon more angles of colorful and colorless life. The canvass commensurate to time and space within a life span grows until the artist is no longer. Will the artist ever fully appreciate their own talent and the results of their work? Maybe. It is always in their nature to grade and think critically of themselves and of their production. Ah, but is it really fair to make such a distinction? Aren’t they but the same? Isn’t the mind of the artist and what’s composed on canvass nothing shorter than the writer’s thoughts and the ink of words on paper? One and in of itself are they. A continuous creation and destruction of itself it will always be until its very last breath. This is what’s beautiful- not the art and not the artist but the constant relationship between the two seemingly separate entities moving as the collected one.