The Art is the Pain…

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The art.

The pain.

So intertwined, you can’t say the difference.

The art is the pain, and the pain is the art.

The art was borne from our grief, it was an expression of our sadness. The art was our pain, when we channelled our feeling of loss into creating the art.

 

Now, now that the pain is somewhat gone, the art relives it, because an art never dies. The art relives the pain. When we look and admire every intricacy, inscription, angle and stroke of the painting of the art, the art relives the pain. When we read the soul piercing lines, and flip pages of the art, the art relives the pain. When we sing the fine and maybe melancholic tunes of the art, the art relives the pain.

 

As the art relives the pain, so the pain outlives the art. The art lives on, so the pain.

Don’t you say the art lives on and the pain does not, don’t you say.

Even if the pain fades, the art lives on. When the art lives on, it relives the pain, and the pain lives on. The pain outlives the art.

We detested the pain, so we created the art, and we don’t know we’ve built a home for the pain. The pain outlives the art.

And maybe when the art manages to fade, the pain would have so nested itself in us that it will never fade too. The pain outlives the art.

 

The art relives the pain. The pain outlives the art. The art is the pain. The pain is the art.

 

 

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