Art Strikes

Sometimes art strikes harder than love. Sometimes it hits you slowly over the range of a few years, as you continue to learn, listen, and grow. It was waiting until you were prepared to know, experientially, casting all concepts aside. Sometimes you‘re not prepared. Art knocks you off your kilter. Can shake the psychological ground beneath your feet, bring you down to your knees, in humble devotion and love.

Art strikes, it makes you cry tears you didn’t know you had. Drops of joy that you were fearful to utter or allow to coaless. Sometimes it blasts you your body, into a past life, or dimension. Throwing you to aspects of your self that transcend time.

Sometimes art strikes harder than love. It‘s a seed that sits in the deposit of your memory. Germinating in your everyday experiences abiding until it buds on surface and blossoms with you. Sometimes, you can feel it grow. Sometimes not.

I think art struck me like love the day I knew I died. That day I looked into your eyes. I knew everything I held was going to come flooding up. I was the point of convergence where memories of past future combine into this very moment. I said ”oh no” but it was too late. I was already everything. Art mimics life and it was ripe with intention for this momentous decisive design.

When you read this, know that I am

But everything else died.