Art is lonely, so let's stand naked on the shore of our own country

Art is sometimes lonely. Artlessness, even lonelier. I’m sorry but I’m distracted by the sensation of my own heart beating. How do you make a broken twig out of diamonds? How do you describe the earth eroding away beneath you? I was alone, so I went out in the dark and stood naked on the beach, stood naked on the shore of my own country. Saying, “I am. We are.” I did not know until today that the truth of my own existence is unassailable. The truth of the light I hold inside can never be made false. It sticks out from my body like a jagged, rising gem. It is undeniable, holy and true. How do we keep ourselves from wholeness? By fearing ourselves, I believe. The fear of being intact, self-controlled, alone. I went back in time yesterday and stood tall for my younger self. I fought off fear and suffering and let that child be unbroken. Protected, nourished, wise, and tall—and never more intact, alone. Art is sometimes lonely. Artlessness, lonelier. “I don’t mind the feeling, just let me be worthy of it. Let me make something of this.” I look out over the water, and I sit on the sand on the shore of my own country, washed by the warm winds of passing time. If the wind lives, then I am not alone.