A life consigned to the solitary experience of a life
That is therefore not a life.
A life consigned to the solitary experience of Creation.
A life consisting of that,
Which is most appropriate for you.
The futility of your work.
The futility of your movements.
The futility of your effort.
Yet you remain intent
Confident in the worth of your creation.
Like a God
Satisfied with His expansive work
So that on the seventh day
But you are not a God.
For there was no rest for you on this seventh day.
There was no time for repose, for reflection, for satisfaction.
There rather remained the void of your solitude.
The emptiness of your stomach.
As a marker
Of what you conceived to be the ignorance
Of the existence
Of your own creation.
Do you create,
For the world
Or for yourself?
«,Answers the artist»
Is for myself
And for the world.
It just so happens to be the case,
That the details of my work
Remain in hiding.
Like a segregated strand of nature
That has never been encountered.
If this strand of nature
Is to be encountered
Or if it will never be encountered
Is not of any concern.
It exists for itself
And for the world,
Whether the world sees it or not.«