Why do you do the things you do?
Why can’t the ideas spark in someone else’s head?
What did you do to deserve the critical eye?
Is this what you were born to do?
Did something say it should be, and there you were?
You, too lowly for Providence.
But too innocent for Hell.
A scribbler in the night.
A word jockey.
What possesses you to do something like this?
And why don’t others?
Could anyone not do this?
Have they never felt the grip?
How can they sit and watch and absorb and not feel the urge to make?
To make a mirror.
We have to make.
I have to make.
An ink cannot run dry yet.
How do they not understand?
They must have it, they must.
And how sick a world.
How fucked a place.
For I have to believe that everyone has these drives.
And the world denies it so thoroughly it is hard to see sometimes.
I have to believe that given the choice, without the doubt too high…
That they would make the same choice.
I have to believe it is a human dream.
I have to believe it is a humanity dream.
And if living is art.
Then art can make someone live.
That art is living.
Because if not, then this world is already dead.