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Art is so pointless sometimes. Don’t you think with all the thinking that artists have done over the years that we would have figured out the meaning of life by now?

You know what I think about the meaning of life?


Why would God create us if we are going to die? But not really even that. Why would God create us with the capacity of knowing we’re going to die? Why couldn’t he just have made us live forever? Or at least make us unaware of what death is? That’d save me a lot of trouble. I’d be happy. But you know what? Have you ever seen anything amazing come from an ignorant creature? I don’t think so. Ignorance isn’t bliss, because without knowing what dark is you can’t know what light is. Without down there’s no up. It’s like explaining color to a blind person. Live forever? That’s not the way to go. It’s in the struggle, the fight of knowing that we are going to die, and having the choice to give it our all and fight, and fight, and scrape and crawl and bleed; fight until there is nothing left in us, until we are everything we wanted to be, or become everything we hate, until we see the light and release our last breath saying, “That was all of me. That was everything. That was my magnum opus.” It is that fight that brings out the worst in us, the absolute worst of desperation, greed, malice, jealousy, and wrath. And it is that same fight that we can triumph, love, heal, conquer and live. LIVE. Really live… and that’s what makes it worth it. That’s what makes life worth living. That’s why we are alive. That’s why we were created. But do no mistake the possibility of life with real life. Do not mistake defeat for death, and hope for triumph. It is a fight. Nothing is guaranteed. Many will fail, and many will succeed, but one thing for certain is that all of us will die. You don’t need me to tell you this. It’s not a surprise. You know it’s coming, and so we are left, not even with the choices we make, but just one choice: Will you fight? Will you fight? Will you live?

But why don’t artists just say that? Why does it take them their whole life to figure that out, or maybe even never figure that out?

That IS the art. Art cannot be summarized or broken down or paraphrased without its meaning being summarized, broken down, and paraphrased as well. Art can’t be explained; it has to be experienced. How do you hear music for someone else? You can’t. How do you taste a delicious treat for someone else? You can’t. How are you supposed to live for someone else? You can’t. I could tell you the meaning of life, but it wouldn’t be the meaning of your life. It takes a lifetime of experiences to understand the meaning of life. Not just the meaning of any life; the meaning of your life. Life is the art, and art is life. We cannot live for someone else, but we struggle to, we try to pour our soul into art so that someone might feel a glimpse of the same thing we felt, live a fraction of our lives, and thus keep us alive through art. We don’t need to live. We don’t need to think. We don’t need to do anything; so I ask you this: why do we? …Your life is art, and you are the meaning of life.

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You know at baggage claim when a bunch of the people from your flight are all waiting around because your bags haven’t come yet because maybe one of the baggage cars got unhitched and meandered onto the runway or something. Either way, everyone’s kind of in this daze, but not because they don’t have their bags–I think it’s because there’s always that one big bag that looks kind of old or is a bright gaudy color, that keeps doing laps around the carousel. And so everybody just watches it, licking their lips, half jealous to the point that they consider grabbing it so they have something to go home with, but really you just can’t help but wonder, “what’s that guy doing?” I know they didn’t miss the flight ’cause it was full, and it’s been a half hour, did he get stuck in the lavatory or something, or did he have to finish his in-flight entertainment ’cause he just had to see how Lincoln was going to end. And they couldn’t have taken someone else’s bag because there’s no possible way two pale green corduroy suitcases were ever made. This one was certainly a mistake. Maybe that’s why it’s been abandoned. There’s probably nothing in it. The owner probably just checked it so they could leave it at the airport and not have to deal with it anymore. If I ever try to leave my baggage at an airport like that I’ll at least have the decency to tape a “4 Sale” sign to it so someone else can grab it.

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“Patience is a virtue… unless you wait too long.”

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I got an audio recorder and figured I’d try to record myself singing just to see what I sound like. I sang a warm up song loud and free, but made a few mistakes. When it came time to press record I found myself holding back because I didn’t want to make any mistakes, but subsequently my singing sounded timid and unimpressive — safe. No one wants to listen to something safe, they want to hear something new and exciting and dynamic and emotional, even if there are parts of it that are awful. I’m just going to say it: the point of life is to sing your lungs out, mess up a few times, and be proud of what you’ve done by the time you hit the last note and listen to the playback.

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I arrived at the platform the trains will all pass,

and beside me a man sat there frozen in time.

With a nod and a sigh the old man surmised,

“I’m afraid that this life will be just like the last.”

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