I can't say really but it just scares me the ideal life
for there's nothing real in it till part of me dies with it.
As some life goes for the eternity of it all
the body aches and I'm another, unknown,
that only life and others can teach me how to know.
That I try to live up to my dream... But,
that dream kills the very essence of being alive
just being me. What is me?
Love for that young child, that young child that the world forgot.
Not me.
So, life is a persistent struggle to live accordingly to him
and for it - the dream - to proceed, the body must act also
according to some form of steady norm that gives space and not attention.
But as some kind of beings live so focus it unfocus the world and those in it...
There's nothing special in the individual artist rather than is dream and belief,
everything else is just a kind of a struggle.
But it shouldn't be, or at least I think it shouldn't be.
Life goes on. Life must go on.
Such immense thinking doesn't leave nowhere if it's trying to find something here.
Thinking and creating must be instruments of entertainment, individual entertainment.
Reality must be seen as reality.
The facts must come to life through the observer.
That's the only way to understand that what the mind creates is only
and should be only in the mind, guarded in silence.
Art must be used only if necessary and if impossible
to contain such immense intuition or feeling. 
For now I understand that living is more precious than art.

The really big things are really small.