The world becomes a fearful place when the men who hold it stop writing sonnets. The turning wheels and the grinding stones dig shallow graves that are never anything but hollow. For a man who comes to rest without having nurtured the beating warmth within his chest finds the end of days without the ability to dance and even less the desire.
Each day is a war waged for the heart. It either gives way unto life or snuffs it out. And, it has little to do with the rises and falls, with heartbreak, with torturous loneliness, with shipwrecks or tragedies. No. It’s the tireless hours spent in the sort of complacent discontent that neither leads to revolt nor surrender.
Fall into love. Burn with anger. Ache with regret. But do not go quiet.
Aspire not to success and do not be given to the fear of failure. Do not concern yourself with your power to will the “right” sorts of things but your ability to be enthralled in whatever sorts of things come your way. Allow yourself to get lost in the wood, whether it be on the road less traveled by or not.
Build within your soul a home for an artist. Don’t worry about the angles. Don’t sweat the dimensions. Set each brick in place without concern for sensibility. It’s purpose is to be a home, not a house. Function is of less importance than feeling.
It is in this artist, hidden away within the home built for him where all the power lies. It has never been in the thrones of government. The businessmen cannot hold sway.
It’s the artist who holds the power.
For it’s the artist who holds the heart.