The Art of Life

I just sit there. Thinking, planning, imagining doing things. Things like dancing, exercising, painting. Big things too, like travelling, acting, being famous. I feel inspired, to do things, be someone, to share my story, to be me. And as I sit here, I plan. I plan things that I will do, things that I will learn, things that I should improve and how to improve them, and for once, I am one, I am one with my passion.

Ultimately though, I’m still here. Just sitting… right here. The rare times I leave my house, and walk in this beautiful city. I walk fast, but I take everything in, I watch the lights, the people, the buildings, I smell the food from restaurants, I feel the heat of the oddly warm autumn night, the slight breeze providing a natural coolness, and for once, I am one, I am one with the city.

I am that lonesome person dressed in mostly black. The person so quiet and fast paced that you see them but don’t really notice them. A stranger you walk by and will never recall again. Yet I am watching, and as we stand on the platform and wait for the train to arrive, I watch as you are on the phone to your wife, pacifying her for cancelling dinner plans as you’ve got extra work for the day, and a few minutes later I see you embrace your beautiful mistress and bring her in for a kiss. And for once, I am one, I am one with my anger and disgust.

And when I drive, I drive fast, break limits, rage, the loud music blasting from the speakers aiding my explosive demeanour. The rough country roads violently jolting the car, and although I’m in no rush, I feel calm in this chaos I’m creating. I overtake the slow and safe drivers, swiftly driving past with a massive grin, the open windows let in a strong gale of wind and I enjoy the feel of my hair fluttering uncontrollably, but soon I am in the city and as a traffic light turns red, I slow down and come to a halt. And for a while there, I am one, I am one with the chaos.

And over the years of my life, I’ve learnt that those rare moments of being one, feeling whole, and unashamedly chaotic, are the rare few moments which become stories, stories that shape you as a person, stories that you will tell your children and grandchildren, stories that will live forever. Justing existing is in and of itself a story that will either flourish forever or dissipate into nothing. The mere act of being alive and more importantly feeling alive is in and of itself a story, and this, this is the art of life.