It isn’t that I don’t want to be forgotten.
That’s the big fear, isn’t it? Being forgotten. Being here for as long as you have been here and not being remembered for any of it. As if being here, then, were entirely meaningless. As if being is meaningless.
The artists who acknowledge and own up to their egos will admit to this being part of their art.
It isn’t that I don’t want to be forgotten.
Having loved, and having been loved, is, I think, the purpose of any purity in our lives. We can pretend there are loftier aims and goals, maybe some greater meaning and altruistic impetus to get us into heaven, but I really think it’s smaller and more finite than that. Such a little thing – love – a four-letter word to rival all the other four-letter words.
Artists want to think the work is what will remain, the work is what will endure, and then only if it’s good and true and authentic.
I am not a good artist.
All I will ever have to leave is a little bit of love – but if I leave a little each day then I will be happy with my life, and none of it will have been wasted or wanting.
Sometimes I get too wrapped up in the day to remember this.
Sometimes I fall into the trappings of just getting through the damn drama of the day.
Sometimes I simply refuse. Defiant to the noble cause, impossible to the very end, and insisting upon hurting my own heart and taking the rest of the world down with me.
And I, sometimes, Aspire Instead.
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