The title is more tragic than the work. I don’t know what I was thinking when I went about creating it, only to say that sometimes we question our motives for doing things. For my part, I’d be lying if there were not hours when I wondered what the hell I was doing with this material, and what impact it would have on my life’s work.
I still don’t know. What I am confident about is that I am working. I am creating, and to that end in and of itself, it is valuable work. It’s pushed me into areas I had never dared to explore before. This exploration itself is very exciting for me. I’d missed these days of abandonment into the work.
So maybe it will break my heart? Perhaps the world might try it. But my heart is strong, and for once in my life, I have truly seen the impact of time as a construct. It guns for you more than society, follows every step worse than an assailant could from a paper, art magazine, or critic.
And yet, I can stall it. I may perish, but the works have their own identity rooted in mine. And in that way, I live longer than my physical life. But time is infinite, and in the end, it will be the victor in all of this. But I will be long gone before this happens. By then, I will have already become part of the plan.
