words are not everything, i think. even if i try to pour all my heart into them. true art is beyond any painting or piece of writing, it is beyond the art itself; for it is the story behind it that matters the most, the work put into, the suffering, the loving. an engagement of all senses. a scenery painting cannot describe the sighs of the wind nor the feeling of sunlight melting into the fresh mountain air. but we can imagine it all for ourselves. we still try to mimic the real thing in a substantial form as well as we can.
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but it is never fully possible, for your art is just an extension of you, and your mind with its strange curves and speckled night skies. it is a by-product. it is not you; you are far greater than that, you are not just your work.
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so what if we just saw everything as art, nothing more? i see music as music, nothing more. the composer behind his works is not defined any sharper through analysing every phrasing, every sequence of notes. for he is somewhere beyond his music, he is greater than the lyrical waterfall of orchestral sounds, the hesitant tripping and tapping of piano chords.
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perhaps this makes you feel more detached from everything. the depths of universe, which you once thought was infinite, so vast and heavy that it was an ocean digging into the ceilings of afterlife places, ends up being finite. time and space, what are these phenomena? love can banish them so easily from our minds, warp them more than any other gravitational force can — for love is the single component of our souls, and it is what holds us together.
