It is depressing that my art will never be as good as those whom I admire.
The harshness lies in knowing I will fade into obscurity and be forgotten, my work, discarded.
It is the reality of truth, and always has been, with the multitudes.
Yet, I continue.
And ask myself, why?
Is there consolation in knowing you are not alone?
A part of the unremembered?
I wonder, is there a level of heaven or hell for fruitless endeavors?
My heart weighs heavy, Ammit.
'Dreaming, I was only dreaming
I wake and I find you asleep
In the deep of my heart here
Darling I hope
That my dream never haunted you
My heart is tellin' you
How much I wanted you