it seems so ridiculous,
sometimes,
when we try to analyze
a story
a painting
or a piece
of music.
how can anyone
understand the deep recesses
of an artist's mind?
and yet i suppose
that's the best we can do
to try to come close
to the original beauty
that was hidden away like
a jewelled ring, dropped in the sea
for billions of years.
i suppose
that's the best we can do
to try to seek that
treasure,
so that we, too,
can feel the
strange swirling lightning bolt
that had struck
that day when
somebody had sat down
and created.
but when we create,
there are a billion
thoughts in our mind,
more than stars in the sky;
and as we create,
we can touch and feel and breathe in
only so few of them,
and in return we can
breathe out
even fewer of them.
it's only the dust
on the surface that you've seen,
that you've been given
from us.
and even ourselves -
we do not know,
and we have not touched -
nor seen, nor heard, nor felt -
the infinites that lie
in wait
in the back of our minds,
and
dream softly in our hearts.
