Thinking about mortality and the love of creating.


Often conflicted and quite difficult to please, a complicated pursuit to remain busy and create overtakes. It’s aimless, but fueled by the imagination of a mind never silent. Thoughts without sleep. A perpetual anxiety holds on the brink of psychological collapse. Everlasting depression lingers in the background with awareness of mortality and the shortness of time. All the things wanted but only few will unfold before the red curtain drops, the lights shut off and the stage plunges to darkness. Countless tail-chases to the priceless and of meaning. Naming it purpose. Hoping it doesn’t come across as nonsense. Yet, hands tremble at the end of all the hopes and dreams. To want it all and not be immortal is a tragedy unavoidable. Glances off into nowhere with the door locked. Private encounter alone inside of a head. Eager voices scream directions at one another. “For this,” they say, “for that!” And they go on.

Moments slip between the fingers like catching water. Can’t get a grip, but the effort isn’t fruitless on wet hands. Always, something makes it. There is no disgrace behind the effort. Only respect and desire for more. As the mileage builds up, the car gets broken in and the engine runs better and smoother. But the anticipation is the breaking point. When the parts begin to wear and tires fall apart. When the sudden realization of being tired sets in and it tears the heart. The fight will only become more determined, but with the hint of desperation. Inevitability always takes over and eventually giving in will be all that remains. Letting it happen. The tank on empty. Water sliding right by leaving all dry. And the clock stops.

Then a wanderer approaches to see all that is left behind. And they whisper to themselves, “Immortalized in this great work lay the infinite.”