"Art is... a blast!"
No more do I understand her, than a babe who smiles at another; joy shines like an early morning, the benefactor of these beams exists everywhere. Simply put, the discovery of lost treasures, the warmth from a pleasant past stoked by nostalgia, and even the feeble scratches on paper an author makes at his writing desk hold a semblance of it. Thoreau would must that no inspiration instills more upon an avid individual than Nature herself. A simple routine of exercise as assiduous persistence bears fruit, highlights the brilliance of growth.
What else do you call one in touch with art? I’m an artist.
There exists an abundance in Nature before us, if we seek to understand. Within a fruit, seeds offer new growth. Art offers auspiciously; I find myself among the sort to plant before picking. No bromide could make sleepy-eyed an explorer so carnivorous. Observations lead to insight, the quaintest of feelings, a touch for movement; step by step, I walk forward. This truth may be hard, but ubiquitous. At times, I forget I do not walk alone. For this, I believe art is eternal, where forms are contemporary. Even lengthy reflection from a calligrapher does not approach how capacious; life’s her own art. Expression lives inimitable, the sole reason I castigate those who do not live to each, their own. Yet, that is not my style nor calling; I picture this. I reserve myself to observance. Scarcely, could I fathom an outcome so calamitous as to forget to experience.