Recitations are mundane — there is not one iota of life in them, there is no spark whatsoever. Truths which we hold to be self-evident need not be incessantly replayed in never-ending refrains — lest they become nothing more than a work-song. If we stand still, we might just as well be dead.
We need to find the song we wish to sing today — no: we need to actually create it. A song cannot be written unless it has already been sung. As we sing it out loud, only then will we discover its beauty. The performance precedes the manifestation.
It may be ugly or scraggly, it may emanate weakly at first, it may wobble and barely move in a rickety fashion — indeed it most likely will. Such is the germ of all mortal masterpieces: even when they are created in a single day, they are nonetheless polished over and over before they truly shine.
Years, decades and centuries later they are bought and sold at the strike of a hammer.
Yet it is not the split second from which their true worth arises. It is the struggle and the toil, the incessant effort and engagement with “what is the matter”, the caring and loving that are given to the object, whether material or virtual. It is the path we take together, a collaborative coexistence, that forms and shapes the traces we leave behind.
Crooked as the outline may be, it is nonetheless tracing our path towards our goal. The imperfections are a part of a beautiful effort.
Putting a monetary price on the artifact is cheap and bogus. Prostitution is not about true love, and neither is the market about true value.
Nothing can bring you peace but yourself