Every person is born an artist,
and their lives a work of art.
That is what I learnt in November.
Art, like beauty, is subjective
and when he says “I love you”,
I am never quite sure if all he sees is
collectives images of a 3-dimensional rendering,
or the idiosyncratic artist that I truly am.
The mind is complex,
yet the heart yearns simplicity.
And they told me that every great artist
only ever wanted to make the world a better place.
Most times, they die before it happens
only missed after its gone.
That is what I learnt in November:
how impressions are illusionary, fragile and thin
or having people only appreciating your presence
after your voice is silenced and long gone.
But still rage against your last dying breath.
Your life a paradox of aesthetic,
and you the greatest architect of all.