Their allure is the worst because they are not as simple as cheap, hollow, dime-store glitter. They are dimensional and encompassing and human.
And yet not human. A small man sits at the control panel inside a beast; a beautiful contraption of sticks and stones and thick paint strokes on concrete.
“I am ART” he announces. He moves nimbly, concrete and all! And I am amazed. I am admiring his contribution, his fantasy and his reality and his existence. And I sit tepid.
Neither boiling nor frigid, neither uncomfortably close nor too far to discern details. My distance is comfortable and so am I. Where are my undulations and rhythms, deep sea songs that rise within my soul and creep into my walks, my dreams, my creations?
Where are my willowy muses of acute awareness, whispers of mortality, cynicism? Where is the strife that puts my neck to the knife and makes a small cut, small but visible, red blood running but not dangerous?
It is lost in the desire for acceptance. Ok not the desire for the attainment of, the seven “likes” that placate the emptiness of a work left unwritten, a feeling left undescribed, a journal entry abandoned for a night of Netflix.