What motivates the artist to show others what life is?

Is it selflessness? Generosity? The artist is, after all, a communicator.

But that is not the focus, in my mind. The product is not the reason, not the incentive. In fact, I think the artist is a selfish spirit who uses art, not as a message, but as a tool.

Not a map of the ocean, but the ship to sail it. To explore it. To become a part of it, to understand it to such a degree that it fills you up gives you an enormous power, not over other people, not wordly power, but power over your own emotions. To be able to feel when you want to feel, to see everything as beautiful. Isn’t that a gift? But where does it end? How far to sail? To the end of the world and back? To the edge of the universe?

Why does an artist kill himself? Is it because he doesn’t want to feel any more? Or is it a yearning to break out, a frustration with the restrictions our bodies and minds put upon us. How horrible it must be for him to live his whole life trying to understand his existence only to find out that it’s nothing near as profound as he expects it to be. Existence is stale and cold, awkward and strange. How horrible that discovery is for someone who has lived his whole life trying to find a deeper meaning.

What happens when he finds the edge of the world? Does he fall off?

Or can he go back and enjoy the places he’s discovered? Can he ever enjoy them, after imagining for so long that there was something more?

It’s strange how living more of life can make you feel empty inside. The fuller you are, the more empty you become.

How do we stop this? How does one truly live? Is it something we can perfect, as a species? Can we ever perfect the art of living? Or are we imperfect by nature? But death is perfect, is it not? The state of nonbeing, simple, silent, beautiful.

I imagine a time in the distant future when life is perfect. When the universe is whole, connected, unified, and we sleep with our one self, in perfect knowledge and perfect happiness. Is that a strange thought? Am I a strange person for wishing it?

We are the enactors of that vision. We can do this, together.

When we’re little, we’re always trying to figure out where the pieces go. How things are connected, how things work. We ask questions like “Why?” and “How?” Later on in life we realize that there are more important things than learning how the world works. Such as what we want from it, such as what want from ourselves. Goals, accomplishments, plans for the future–these are things that society tells us is important. They are things that people spend their entire lives working towards, because that’s they were brought up that way, or somebody earlier in life said that they should, or they were just imitating people who seemed successful. What really matters in life? Sure, there are things like personal comfort, general health and well-being. Family, friends. But, I think, for us to be truly happy in life, to be completely and utterly content when we die, we have to enjoy what we do, we have to enjoy how we live our lives. People seem to always say things like “Do this because it’s the right thing to do,”or “This is the way you get ahead in life.” And, of course, living life purely in the present is foolish. But, I think, sometimes people forget to live life in the present at all. It’s always work, work, work to get something done, so that later we can get something else done, so that maybe, at the end of the line, we can be successful and happy. But most of the people I know who are financially successful are always stressed out about something or other. I don’t want to be like that, and I don’t want to live like that. On another note, I would very much like the choose the cause of my own death when I die. I would rather it not be a surprise. Perhaps, when I’m old and gray, I’ll sail out into the middle of an ocean and dive into the sea. I’ve been struggling lately in becoming content with death, for when it finally arrives. I think, at least, that I’m more content with it than I used to be. Destruction breeds creation. Death brings life. I think it’s possible for me to come to a point, sometime down the line, where I’m happy in death. When I’ve done all I need to do, seen all I need to see. And then my memories of those moments will be all I need to keep me happy. And when those memories begin to lose meaning, or start to fade away… so can I. Sorry for rambling.