A Smoldering Fire

Do real artists ever find a tangible purpose in life? Or does constant, continuous abstract thinking melt the mind into a schizophrenic mush? I think the problem rests in the lacking counterbalance between critical thinking and over-analyzing. A free mind is surely one of beauty, but it seems as though our world needs its plumbers. One is forced to wonder what exists in each mind that is so incredibly different from the next? What elixir pours frantically between synapses? What blue print is unfolded only to be created by skilled hands?

A smoldering fire in the desert is one worth consoling. Aiding in its journey - only to be forgotten by those who've never known burning so brilliant. No stagnant replication or vile noise - just dignified and diligent. Starched to be starved and filter out with the rest. The true artist may find times of hunger in the present, but immortality was made for a mini series. An airbrush auction would make us all a little more gray, a little more mundane - but the inevitable has yet to exist. Maybe its time to pick up the blue print and start reading it again. There may have been a mistake.