The Rhyme Of The Dying Artist

 

And as he lay there dying, he knew that he always realised life was not very long. It came as no surprise to him that he had gotten old and was now on his deathbed. Now there were no more questions left. No more ‘how long do I have’ and no more ‘what to do with the time I have left.’

Now the sense of wonder at being alive was gone. He knew that when that happens, all is lost.

It was never the idea of getting old that bothered him, it was just the idea of actually dying that seemed such a drag. He only had one life and had turned the whole thing into one big experiment. He didn’t know where he was going, but he certainly knew it wouldn’t be boring.

His art had been both a doorway to perception and a house to live in. If he had not learned about his art, he knew that it would not have mattered what he had done with his life. It was all about alienation and where he fitted into society.

He knew he was an individual who never felt he needed to have somebody qualify his work in any particular way. He was working for himself and him alone. He knew that his biggest mistakes came when he tried to second guess or please his audience. His work was always stronger when he got very selfish about it.

And as he lay there dying, he knew that life was always going to be short.

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