Do we owe others explanation for our words? Should we be ready and willing to say more than what stories state and express?
Should we, or have right to, tell when another serves as catalyst or inspiration to a thought; or is such intrusion and offense? Without invitation, are we wrong to create and, after, share, “I noticed you and made this of a thought…”
Explain, or leave alone, letting art be art without further word? If made and written well, should art require any more?
Maybe it shouldn’t matter: if we are read, noticed, or understood. Maybe we should be content never knowing if our words and art are found; holding contentment in catharsis of the process even if we, as artist, remain still isolated in the after; absent connection and closeness with discovering like-minds.
Without answer, I write; content in the process, catharsis in recording, wondering if a closeness and effect may ever be forged through process that remains a solitary act.
I believe it can be made—the closeness, connections—if an audience is found and words speak to sensing hearts similar to that from which words rose…but how?
Maybe such is a foolish ideal, but isn’t that a reason, too, to write; to create, giving form and semblance-life to ideals and otherwise idle dreams?
Without answer, only wonderings, I write.