Art finds Tribe
You are there, in what happens, immanent. If you were the source, I would probably be lying to myself. Sometimes your spirit fuses into mine, some other times all I see is an empty space; a blank sheet of paper. Chilly breezes upon this hill top, night alive with stars, and forest inviting into a silent mystery. She was seen there once at dusk, white robes and face just. Never again then, for I have been sitting here; a hill with graves. Fire would be nice. I sit endlessly by the fire, for the sake of it. Twigs and firewood, dry grass and soft mood. Gently we roll eyes to comfortable dark. The space blank now is dark. To see one must in darkness be. An idea of trust then emerge, for animated we are, so lit we are. Besides forever confused, in seek of refuge. I can’t stand this cold, fire sway, fire sway. Then we must always away, for fire burns to swallow. Else I disappear without a tale discovered.
That doesn’t mean I lost you. Only you who complains, not understood, has me truth. I don’t know who you are, forever lost in shades I am. Mostly hollow, sometimes heavy, and others breathy. I don’t owe this to you. You take it anyway and I keep it for you. Once was this an everyday make until suddenly snail. No reason for that I have. I wish, I knew the source. Would let you know as well. Then you might have wanted to go there and experience for yourself. Maybe, but then I always feared this appropriation to knowledge. Paranoid it has me become. How could you be talking to me? Is it really on me? Lost…
Ah! But the effect. Keep coming back, photograph and photograph again, to video after video in brain. It cannot be easy, for too windy it is. My fire trembles and roars. A shackled beast wanting to flee. Drawn closer, perhaps some care. Hugs to demise, but always stare. What happened? You burnt yourself the fire down. This is what happened.
Then I must keep the fire alive. Firewood heavy and assemblage pure, strength to core. Withdrawing breezes, refined conjure. This art some on a page. Recorded and mapped, channeled and safe. Connects you in form or the other, I have my word relate. Minutes to your eyes read, but eternal life. Forever here for us to see. Art finds the tribe. I must then, always trust. For you happen to happen in aware.
If you feel connected in some form, please visit the Art Store. Thanks!