April 18: Delusions

More and more
I am thinking about
what it means to
a) Make art, and
b) Be with people.

More and more
I am coming to believe
that the two are more about
delusion than I thought.
More and more I am finding
parts of myself I did not know.

To make art, I must believe
that it will change the world,
change somebody's life, that
somebody will read it or see it
and understand all the thorny
bushes and desertscapes I am
coming from, somebody will
rise out of their own sadness
like a flower blossoming, and
it will be significant. It will
touch another. It will unfold
the folds of a stranger's heart.

To be with people, I must believe
that it will fill up the empty spaces
within me, that everything will
hurt less, that the ability to love
will cleanse me of all other sin.

More and more,
I can see myself
in these various mirrors
made of glass, and I can see
that in a sense, I am alone
here, these days are long
and lonely, and nobody
will be wholesome and
a savior for my fragile
heart. It is only I. My art
will only ever belong to
me, will only ever fold
and unfold the creases
of my skin the way I
want it to. The empty
spaces will remain, will
be cruel sometimes, will
ache desperately sometimes,
but will remain. No friend
or lover or parent or stranger
can wrench my voids away
from my bones or soul.

To know this
is to be wise, perhaps
even independant. But
to know this, must also be
to be kind. I must not demand
a wholesome life from lovers
or strangers or readers. I must
give one to myself; yet be kind,
yet create, yet hope, yet learn
to live in this crazy world
with all the rest of them.