Final Resistance

A fast-waning interlude – between the act of returning to the world of the living, and the realm of the blighted nomad.

What does it really entail to give up an existence that has the appeal of not having come fully to fruition based on a candid realization that the sense of time gives us – that experience cannot be divorced from the cumulative number of years spent on a certain path in the hunt for the ideal. And what would I be giving up, really? – A cultured sense of self, an approbation of an irretrievable sensibility that effort spent on the cultivation of others’ comforts is a denial of some sense of individual liability? What have I gained in the interlude, is perhaps a more responsible question - A critic’s bemusement at the workaday travails of others, a brooding abstraction in the antics of the ant-like specimens of humanity, an unquantifiable tone of bas-relief perspective on the macro vs. the micro world of today???

I don’t know, and because I am on the threshold of stepping back into the factually industrious void, I cannot claim a captious objectivity. The reasons for the ‘treachery’ are tragically banal – money, a putative notion of responsibility, a driving concern that a sense of idleness is eclipsing the largely misunderstood pursuit of the artist.

“I take responsibility for my own life,” says the bird to the bee. "So, who are you to question its form?”