I have said before, it is the inescapable reality that cannot be altered within our minds. The world may very well be a mixing pot, with so many eagerly leaping into the boiling waters to conceivably be part of something greater. But in the mist of marketing, it is simply the abating of a once whole element. Any unique quality or creativity is vaporized away in the process of appealing to all.

Thrown in the lot are spices to appeal, a bouquet of fragrances prompting us to those things that we embrace, or wish that we still did. Just a taste though. It has to attract everyone after all.  Yet the fusion of several artists does not make art. The individual distinctions are gone; the canvas becomes no more than a fabrication.

I tend to dream at the stone’s edge, of how it once was, days past. Not so much the conjuring of reminiscent regrets like we all seem to summon. Rather those distinctive moments within our past that were defining, those moments when we were still resolute and undissolved. Like the way a young boy looks to his best friend just before he jumps. There is a magnitude of relatable reality locked within that moment. It may bring you contentment, fear, sadness, or inspiration; it may make you laugh or cry. But it will assuredly make you feel. And that is art.

Every day I long to sense art, and ever once and a while I do, in the smallest of actions. I recognize it because it immediately moves me; for I am moved by so little these days. Yet somehow those little actions have captured the essence of what it is to live. Not necessarily what we’d wish it to be, but what it openly is. Like smelling the roses along the way, though they are wilted. It’s what one does at that instant that makes art. For you are no longer in control of your thoughts. They are drifting far to a distant moment when the senses were sterling…