Sunrise peers over the lip of the land like a long lost friend, When dark of night haunts us, we always revert, seeking those who touched us closest first for comfort and warmth – and remains true all these years later with all these sad days between back then and now, those hopeful times when we all assumed we could change the world, when time teaches us it the other way around. A few manage to keep their pledge, fewer manage to tread water and keep from being changed too much, still fewer manage to stay the same and only a handful, a desperate few, do what they set out to do.
Those are the great ones, evil or good, the killers and the Christs, who leave their mark so firmly on this planet we cannot forget them, those who cut off their ears or drink the poison, to live on through their art or their philosophy, the people who grasp the world in their claws to elevate it or break it to pieces, who are so consumed by what they need to do they have no room for anything else and can only do that one thing before they climb onto the cross and move on to the next task the universe assigns them.
Few can be so consumed and not think of other part of life, we need or want, that art itself becomes a sole existence, worked for every waking movement of every living day, not bothering to wonder if anyone will recognize or remember them later.
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