As an artist you must confront yourself constantly

this is why I think it is the only way to live

how can you ever become your most evolved self

if you are not constantly confronting the un-confrontable things

in your beliefs, in your head, in your heart, in your dna?

You have to learn to empathize with everyone

in every situation

you must learn to understand certain motives

that may make your stomach churn

you must live a thousand lives

and believe each one

the artist's work is never done

and the work- though often questioned

by both society and the artists themselves

is extremely important

we must be scientists of the soul

the human experience

we must be doctors of the deeds

we deem humane

we must tread paths

yet undiscovered

use imagination to see what has yet been

unseen

we are the receivers and the givers

the vessels through which all can live and feel

we are the memory recorders

living human time capsules

here to introduce you to yourselves

and where you've been

and the cautionary tales of things ahead.

Her tears flew away on a midnight ship towards Paris as thunder clapped in the clouds like a long and sad applause. They’d left to join his heart, which had been torn from hers only moments earlier. Heaving inside her chest now was only lungs- the trees of life cycling oxygen in and out of an empty cave. Bones clanked together in what was now wide-open space. Her skin began decompressing to accommodate her smaller size- the size of grief- the weight of loss. This may seem counter-true as grief is large as the world is round, but the person in it’s midst is thus shrunken down. And in her eyes, in her eyes, in her eyes- where had once been held the look of love, so powerful and all encompassing, so true and of soul-bound stuff- now sat a darkened stare that could only be described as the quietus stone face of a tomb yet cold.

Had she the tools of a conductor she would have demanded an encore. Applause, applause, applause- it all felt untrue, and insincere. At some point she would have to leave the stadium, gather her things and walk into the streets. She would have to put one foot on the ground even as her hands reached futile towards the unreachable sky. Wishing, she was wishing for the gift of flight- fighting, she was fighting for every breath she took- not to take another, but to snuff them out. If he couldn’t stay, she didn’t want to stay either. All was ruin and in this ruination she was decompressing to the point of no return.

Her heart, her heart was gone. Aboard a ship to Paris. Thunder clapped and was insincere. Her concaved breath smelled shallow with indifference. Her feet repelled the earth. Fists shot up and birth was a tale best left untold.

Eternal rest is an oblivion with no return, but the other side of the coin is a preceding life.  A crescendo written only in the music sheets of time- a book that can’t be read but in hindsight. And as she fell to the ground, sure-fire earth bound for as long as it was written- she felt a feeling that could only be described as LIFE- a pounding in her chest as soft as the first hues of light in the early morning sunrise. Enduring life, enduring loss, in doing, doing what she must to keep on breathing- she’d survived and garnered a tinge of strength. From where it came, she did not know, but felt it just the same.

A new heart was drumming out a beat.

She stood upon her feet.

She gathered all her things.

She hit the street, she hit the street.

Marching on, 

she would not forget, 

but heal, heal-

heel toe heel toe heel toe

to the finish line.

Her story was not yet

a tale to be told,

a trail gone cold.

Just a chapter bookened

to another.

On she goes.

On she goes.