Talking to myself...

“The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it immensely. All art is useless.”

Oscar Wilde

And it is precisely its material uselessness that makes it essential for me. Art is for the soul what air and water and food are for the body-it sustains it alive. A man without a soul is like a plastic doll-it resembles something it isn’t. Art is what helps me endure the inevitable ugliness of life without screaming. And ugliness there is plenty. Sometimes the burden of life seems not only too heavy but absolutely meaningless to carry. And yet, from time to time, a crack appears in the solid numb routine and I’m swept away with emotions mighty as a force of nature unleashing its power. In those rare moments everything makes sense, everything falls right where it belongs and the picture is perfect in its entity. In those moments I’m in love with life and that gives me hope that I’m not dead yet to its beauty. And beauty there is-hidden like a gem in the dirt. One just has to keep digging.

Currently reading: Julian Barns- “The lemon table”. Very thorough choice of words making the usual unusual.

Ah, it was about time for such a pretentious post :)