On Art

Scarce a dream, the repreive from life that art brings. There is an escape to be found in that world. As the music drifts on the sun-filled beams the music becomes alive with it. Each spec of dust in the air holds a microcosm of the music that surrounds it.
When you step into a room with art, be it a play, a gallery or a symphony, the world stops. You are swollowed whole, enveloped in the sensation that is creativity. You're allowed to believe in something that is better than yourself. For half an hour, an hour, two, you become lost in a world that all together different than the one you're in. This world is full of plot, action, ending and begining. Even in the simple glance of a picture a whole world is contained--a story in a portrait made of oil and pigment that depicts hardship, social status, hopes, fears and the captivity of the soul therein.
What would life be like, to never leave that room of art? To be that painting, living within the frame? To live in the world of a dance? The angle, the movement, the line--the emotion all more than mere expression. All previews into another world--another life--another existance.
That stop is what my heart cries for. The leap from reality to reality. A taste of it makes you hunger for the next, and fasting makes you more impatient rather than tolerant of the lack.
To lose yourself to the world of artistic creativity would be to lose yourself forever. For who would want to surface from such a existance? A form of insanity that is limited only by your own creativity and desire to pursue.