Beauty in art

Am I simply a poet who calls himself a thinker? I would hate to think that my gift is comprised of syllable string quartets, in which the conductor plays upon the imagination, exciting the mind into the throes of titillation. But it begs the question, What am I selling? Is it your nature that I am defining? Is it mine? Do we have enough in common, as human beings to bridge the gaps in our differences...

And  the answer is assuredly unknown to me. I find it beautiful that my art is still undefined, even as written, because the truth rests within the viewer.  As is all art to some degree, the difference being that quite regularly, the artist starts out with the interpretation of life and defines it how they see fit. Where as I am still defining my art, (the questions of human nature applied) and it might never be finished. That in turn allows me some romance of thought, believing that I can pursue her constantly. Chasing after a dream that will never come to full realization.

 Furthermore if I cannot take my passion with ridgid stoicism, how can I expect an audience to willingly participate in thinking? Perhaps my readers will find beauty where I can only see struggle. Perhaps not, once again we arrive at the beauty of interpretation.

:)