Art does Not Require Repair

I've collected a few stories in my time, but this is the strangest. This is dedicated to art and artists. A moment is a moment no matter how you count time The Dream It was disturbing, a nightmare Incarnate. My prized sculpture, a clay statue was melting. Clay teardrops formed tears beneath sinking eyes. I felt the pain helplessly forced to watch my sculpture decay. Had I made the eyes so sad? the chin so low? So many Questions, yet no answers were had. I stared at mŠ statue. It sparkled and glimmered. It said "life" in a way like nothing before it. Moments passed, hypnotized in love, something moved. There appeared to be a tear now on the left cheek. I felt horrible. Perhaps if I knew what made the clay liquefy and drip I could halt the progress. A part of me was in that statue mixed in with the clay. if I could identify that part, might I look through it and more intimately watch the change. A moment later the weirdest thing happened. A transformation took place. I saw a Life come and Go. it made me sad to see it struggle so. I felt my heart bleed drops of love. These I gave to the children of this world. Suddenly there i was looking at the tears and saddened furrowed face of my art/ Perhaps if I found the "me" I put inside the statue, just a moment, then I found the "word" of a coming before, and I remembered why I came. I work alone best, but life on this world is nosey and curious. Eventually I came to love them, the children of life. I began to understand why my statue was changing. A great pain filled my heart to preserve my art their existence would be threatened. I worked out a way to save some, but unfortunately, could not save them all. It killed me, literally. I really don't take visitors, but I do make exceptions. I am an artist at heart, and a lover of perfection. I've paintings and writings, but my specialty is fired clay, a process I painfully learned. On the shelf you'll see my statues with sad, tearing eyes. Beneath their polished gossamer skins lie millions of the worlds frozen forever in a moment of NowHere. Over there by itself is my finest, my first and only self portrait. It takes pain to produce Fine art. You'll never know how much it hurt me to put that statue in the fire. I, to this day, can still hear its scream. Just moments ago, life unraveled Dreams in pools of Being. Abstract forms approximating infinity. Just moments ago Beauty sustained Stories without words. The paintings took my Breath away. Just moments ago, the finest yet, a clay made sculpture. Life shining Art for Art's sake, I rest. In my dream, I saw a world of Grand Glory. A world marked by fate. Where life would happen to find the truth. I awoke and everything seemed fine. The signs all read "When You Grow Up You Will Understand." They should have written "help" instead. We each wrote our story so many years ago and took a chance on the race of life. Some bet on the favorite. Winning was right. One day he rose to greet the day. Rinsed his mouth. The glass on the sink stained and old. Youth, like the last drops of water dribbled down his chin. His smile lost in wrinkles, and muscles no longer his to control. The day screamed for mercy. His ears rang with the sound. The beauty of it all rattled in the hollow of his brain. Somewhere deep in his soul was the story he wrote and treasured. He watched the parade of tomorrows pass by, waiting for his chance to cheer. Would anyone tell him the parade was over? He picked up his bag, his belongings dear, a shirt and pants, some wine, some beer. A picture of back-when life was New. A worn tattered book, an old cracked mirror. As he slowly walked down the street I watched a dream disappear. . . . I closed my eyes. Life was for the dead.




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