Situation full of trials and tribulation. Infatuation with avoiding elimination. I will live forever. My body will perish. My body of work will remain. My body of work must contain content that will continue to inspire once I am gone. I am an artist. This is no longer avoidable. At times, it’s enjoyable. Most times, it is not. The truth hurts. Telling the truth heals. Sort of like open heart surgery without anesthesia. The ability to to sleep through excruciating pain is a privilege we take for granted. Especially because it doesn’t happen too often. More often than not, we are wide awake as mortality takes its toll on us. Draining us of youth. Age has been trying to hold me in a headlock. As I chase time, I can’t help but stop and think exactly what I’m running for. Sweat dripping down my soul, burning the eyes of my heart, I lose sight of what is real and what humanity has tried to convince me is real. Time is a concept that did not grow out of nature’s soil. Yes, the lines in my face become more defined and my bones slowly decrease in durability, but that is not because of time. That is simply nature at work. That happens to all things. As the waves of each day crash against our existence, it is inevitable that erosion will eventually take its toll. But time, time is a trick. Time is what makes us believe we are in a hurry, or too late, or that we’ve been alone for too long. Time is an unnecessary form of measurement. Imagine if there were a ruler of some sort keeping track of how many steps you’ve taken each day, telling you what you should be doing once you reach a certain number of steps. That is time. That is age. Age has deceived us into believing that there is a certain point in our life where the furniture of our future must be fully assembled and ready to be put on display. It doesn’t work like that. Many of us are in hopeful houses with empty living rooms. Everyone does not decorate at the same pace. Do not let them convince you that you are too old to be sleeping on the floor. You are not moving too slow. Birds skate through the sky, listening to nothing but their instincts, and they always end up where they are meant to be. I want to be a bird. I’ve been given wings. Writing is my way of flying. So that is what I will continue to do.
Originally published at davidfnmorgan.com.