We walked off to look for America

A method of artistry is to explore an idea that appeals to you, as it travels through you- through your mind, filtering into your thoughts, then streaming out of your hands and knees as action and rolling off your tongue as words. Clattering heels, nightmares, the smells of memory.

While some enjoy chasing ideas down to their moment of birth in the real world, some others like to follow them down to their logical end. In things and people the end is real, the options are limited- time doesnt go on forever. But for the world it does. In the real world, nothing ever ends- the baton is merely passed from one that is near death, to one that will continue to live a while more. Even when it ceases to exist, the history of the world continues to play itself out as the aftermath.

So the experience of imagining is always exclusive- the world contains all possibilities and imagination refines the idea's path down to one. Its called a narrative. You can make narratives out of words, but also out of gliding hands, out of spreading ink and harpsichords. Narratives are also made of kitchen tiles, of baby names and the way hair is braided.

And so, the imaginer walks down a lonely road, picking choice flowers from people and places along the way. What I'm trying to say, is that the creation of life is like a work of art, but essentially one that progressively distances you from the rest of the world. You open your eyes and the world is young- anything can be. The years go by, you chose your narrative. So dying, exiting the world, is the only logical end, it's the end of possibility- it doesn't scare me, if I can get there by choice.