art

it begins with the desire to make a mark, chalk on stone, stick through sand, pencil on paper.
every child wants approval. your mum strokes your head and tell's you that you are a clever boy for drawing so well, so you do some more.
after a while you find yourself in pursuit of some kind of beauty, even if you like looking in all the darkest most unlikely places to catch your elusive prey.
years may take you down language loops, trickery and attempts to describe that which you made to communicate that which words could not.
life and survival steers you down tributaries of the central river, making beauty for others in objects you find ugly.
you know when you are wrong as it becomes a fight.
you know when you are right because you feel no resistance. you dont even know you are doing it until it is done.
but I wonder, in darker moments if I have made the world a more or less beautiful place, or if I will ever know.
bar the honest fact that I know no other way I do believe in art, and still believe it is my duty to try.