Untitled

Me
Jul 27, 2015
2 min read

Strangely, at this point of my life, late July, I am very full.

I am like a basin with its water to its brim with the slightest stone that skims the surface erupting currents from all directions. Water overflows on all edges of the basin. Sporadically. And until time allows the rupture to settle and the surface to become serene again, the insides are a flurry of collected debris, corpses, “jjiggugi” (leftovers); not knowing where to go, trapped until someone scoops them out, or until they settle on the floors of the basin and harden to be a part of the basin itself.

It’s not a bad thing... Sometimes floating seeds find their place and bloom aquatic flowers. Sometimes the smaller pebbles manage to sink without ruptur. But they add weight, weight which subtly brings water up higher to the brim. Right now I am just saying the brim is full.

It has lead me to notice a funny thing. I have temporarily lost the desire to view art. More or less engage with it. I can make art and write like this for myself. But I cannot embrace things and make it mine, like reading dense contemplations or sentimental poetry.

Don't worry, it's just temporary. My currents are having a fit! But one thing for sure admist the flurry of vague confusions, it got me thinking: is this not pure evidence that art is the purest form of expression? The entity who created the art glowing off from the art's surface... ready to pounce on your sentiment and meddle with your brain cords the moment you set your eyes on it?

With my basin breezy and leisurely I can embrace the funniest jibberish and the most complex contemplations. But

like how sometimes you do not have the patience for excessive talkers, talkers of a different language, talkers that talk on a totally different wavelength- I do not have the patience right now for art.

I think that means that art is doing the exact same thing as talkers do, voicing thoughts out loud, whether they be jibberish or the deepest philosophies.