Day by day, things get a little clearer.
This naive misdirection, this hubris of purpose: let it weigh me down. I'm not running from it. I'm grounded.
The world is a large animal, and it is shaking things off its back.

Get back to me! I thought I was fighting for everyone to have a voice! Now, all my sounds just add to the cacophony of the chorus. From here, I don't even see the centre stage.

I climbed the mountains of intellect to gather sweetness from it's flowers. As I looked down I saw they were building greenhouses. By the time I got back to the city the nectar was sold as soda pop.

Why do I need it?
Because art is for me a primary form of communication. It deals with feelings and experiences that are impossible to express and thus creates an archive of the human condition. It is a metaphysical space where we can meet each other and share our common existence.

The easiest is just to go with what art is for me. I like art that challenges my worldview. Art that has a quality of enchantment. Art that is made with skill of the mind, soul and hands. Art that is serious in its absurdity.
Art that can transform.

I do not know what truly has meaning. It could be banal, something one might leave at a friend's house, or at a bus station. I might had it in my back pocket, forgot to take it out on wash-day, and now my happiness is ruined forever.
All because I didn't understand the joy that lives in the mundane.