Art

“Nothing ever ends poetically, it ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was always just red.” - Kait Rokowski

What a wonderful thought.

I’ve said before that conversations are poetry,

that the sky is a painting,

that people are stories,

that days are movies.

But I think I’ve changed my mind.

Life is not art.

Nothing is.

A cup of coffee doesn’t become beautiful until you describe the care and time and effort and energy that goes into making it.

Death is nothing but sad until you document the way it made their short life that much more special.

Birth is anything but sad until you highlight the pain and hardships that child now has to suffer and potentially cause.

A trip to the park doesn’t become beautiful until you paint it.

A moment in someone’s arms doesn’t sing until you write the music around it.

Is an artist’s job to create art,

or to see it?

To see it and point it out and make it art.

Artists live lonely lives because they are forced to find ways to explain what they see.

To make life art.

Maybe to make art is to explain.

To fight to be heard,

to use more words than you wanted to because they don’t understand.

Maybe life isn’t art,

but art is life someone loved once.