A pulse

Things are pulling at me from all kinds of directions. Expanding and contracting, pushing trying to get something out of me. What is it that pulls and tugs at me, which compels me to even move? What is that drive, that desire to create, to see and be seen, to speak and be spoken to, to feel and be felt. What is the intention of desire, to possess to capture something which can never last?Are artist just collectors of the past, living cameras with pictures? This on going MESS of imagery saturating my eyes, my thoughts, my mind, my being, my body. It's some kind of torture and eternal struggle between my eyes and my mind and my head and my heart. All these names of different things that all tell me the same thing. Repeated until the point of exhaustion and absurdity. To where everything defies explanation. What happened to the mystery, that innocence i once possessed about the world? I've tied it down. Denied it room to grow. Possessing it without reverence or concern for the possessed. Eternal return. Everything repeats. Days do seem infinite. Is life only finished through death? I think some artist are saviors, not in a holy all redeeming, sin saving sense but in the sense of collecting a moment and suspending it in time and in peoples mind for a period of time. Artist are continually reflecting back the information currently being received and perceived from society and reflecting it back to the public eye in a preposterous yet thoughtful and sometimes profound way. What can be worst in the publics mind than the death of a star. The tragedy of the death of a star. A star is born. A star dies. Why must we have this desire to be like stars. The irony of celebrity. We look up to the stars. I try to look up to the ones above my head but the ones on the magazine seem so much closer to me! Some people must have gotten their priorities misplaced somewhere along the way. Figuring out the game of word play, mistaking one thing for the next. Something ever present but ever so far removed. What is this affinity towards that which can never be touched and never forgotten called; Love?