“Youth is wasted on the young”, I know, and I am trying. So desperately to ensure that my odyssey is a chest of memories that will never diminish.

I find myself staring at the bottom of empty coffee mugs, caught between the backwash of coffee tainted oxygen molecules and morning delays. These cells are nothing but pixilated facades.

Nietzsche says that art does not need to be truth, but isn’t that what it is all about? Is that not what makes it so raw? Making the intangible, tangible? But the only thing true of art is that art saves us. And if that means that what art is made of is not truth; that art is the outcome of a survival mechanism to compose and convince ourselves to feel something so that we do not fall into the black hole of nihilism then so be it.

Because I won’t know any other way. All I know is that I am breathing and thinking and just being.

It is kind of ironic that we depend on each other’s defense mechanisms to live, to prove that our existence isn’t just some fucked evolutionary step. We are so desperate and so in need to find ourselves, to understand that we need to be here that we also begin to see ourselves in the art works. In the brush strokes of Van Gough; in the not so irregular and not so misplaced lines of Picasso’s works. This is both comforting and scary.

Some days it is hard to differentiate yourself from all the art that is surrounding you and I; sorting through all the pieces that are spread along the sunrises, book stores or through the numb vibrations of the rain. Art does not have to be true, but it does have to be a series of releases.

We spend our whole lives breathing in and attacking notes, but we always forget that we can breathe. That in our composition of life we can add our own breath marks. It is okay to release. To breathe in and to stop your tune when needed.