Breathe life into your lungs, these struggling sacks, bored far to much to even stake an effort into taking in life again and again. Your own body rejecting that which billions of years had taught it to do thoughtlessly. The yearning of the flesh for the kissing of the sun, only met by the chilling stabs of AC and the prickles of slumbering limbs limp from stationary misuse. The arts of self keep the light alive. The arts, the sharing of skin, keep the eyes useful in swell, keep the blood flowing. The arts are what aim a man toward the sky, toward beyond. Its the arts which makes rejecting the mundane, pitching the towel soaked with insanity-serum sulfate away for the sake of simply making a statement. Life without statement, without expression is not life but life devoid and agape with a hole. To fill this air with something of worth, bodies need art, even if so this means turning their bodies into art themselves. This becoming so that the world may see and marvel. This becoming so that others may see and be inspired to do the same.
Her Links –