Art

Art burns.

Art ignites with contemplation, silence, reflection and inspiration found in books and people.

Art’s fire is fuelled by the same but can be extinguished by too much of its own fuel.

There are perfect conditions for Art’s fire to spread and when arson is so desperately needed it cannot be starved of oxygen.

Try with every push of power and effort that sparks and flickers.

Never for a single moment stop trying to get a flame or we’ll all be crying into embers.

Don’t use weak twigs but breathe on everything that is flammable.

Art is a poor word but it’s inside everyone.

Art is a concept and feeling, a part of the eternal ‘us’ and something maybe even God didn’t foresee.

Art is anything that you put time, lots of time and effort, vein-bulging, grunting, tight-cheeked, wide-eyed, drawn-faced, roaring effort into.

Anything.

A masterpiece is the sum of Art’s endeavours through the artist over a sustained time life lifetime.

Art is a poor word, only three letters, and they are the wrong letters.

Phweshneegorambulactoranjaxificaliabradisticatizastica is more apt but words and script and letters and prose and speech and language and books and poems and novels and sex and inspiration and experience and regret and wishes and ambition and desire and sweat and tongues and pangs and life and place restrict.

Art is love.

Emotion restricts.

The world restricts.

These four walls, any four walls are insignificant but, as factors and figments of the great big everything, they restrict and limit.

Horrible, horrible words, disgust, bile, vomit, why write?

A spiky future of sand and disease.

Art is love. Open your eyes.