it is my life that is the true art. and all i can leave behind is fragments of my experience. artful insights into who i may have been. i, as this dean, will never know because i will not be there to see the completed picture, the full stop. my life's work will be my life's work. creativity flowing through me. expression as exhalation.
like a comet i will leave behind a brilliant trail, illuminated not from within but from a point outside myself. it will be your eyes that bring me to life and keep me there. for now all i can do is keep breathing. breathing and hoping that what i do leave behind is of some significance, and that i do not fade out into un-remembered nothingness. a fate worse then death.

i am still searching for truth.
that is to say i am still searching for myself.


each day i struggle to determine if my life as this body is one day longer or one day shorter.


i am not supposed to be anything other then what i am.

there is nothing inside of me. i am empty except for the capability to tune into the world. anything i think, anything i feel is the direct result of a particular tuning, a frequency i have picked up from the universe. this allows endless possibility into my life. it provides me the potential, at any given moment, for anything at all. if you can imagine it, i can feel it. if i can project it, i can share it with you. everything is shared. nothing is mine, nor yours or even ours. everything is everyone's.

what do you have to be afraid of? pain? you know pain to be transient. never permanent. even the most prolific pain passes. so what then? you have nothing to lose, because in truth you can have nothing at all. there is only gain to be found here. only self expression, only the shared smile that put you here in the first place and only the reflection of the world you want to live. you need not be afraid. those words sound empty. empty but true. the true challenge is giving in and letting go. allowing the universe to work its magic on you, having faith that everything is as it should be. always easier said then done, and easier said to others then to yourself in the mirror.

perhaps it is never my work that you do not understand, but only yourself. the prism with which you view the world is distorted beyond recognition rendering you incapable of seeing anything for what it is. it's not wrong, just different. your blue is my red. as my ideas refract, they scatter and leave you clasping at shadows. you see the twinkling of the full light spectrum, you understand the rainbow, but only look at it as something abstracted from you. you do not feel the light rain as it brushes over your cheeks. and after staring for some time, you turn away, realising you are soaking wet and can not remember why you were standing in the rain in the first place. the colours are there. they are always there. your colours too. and the bliss when our rainbows converge. their luminosity knowing no bounds.
when you remember that it is same the light which shines through me as through you, the same source refracting and reflecting, only then you may be able to begin to understand me and my work.