To the power that we share,

Sunday.

To the power that we share,

On the matter of dreaming

and what is the untouchable matter of it

when young you are so told to dream

and forth you grow and dream to ever dream once more

Growing up I was always encouraged to dream and dream big. There was nothing that I wouldn’t be able to do. And I was sure of it. I still am, although, under new terms.

“Sunday, go and do what you love. Dad will be working hard for you so you don’t ever have to worry.”

“But please don’t become an Egyptologist, we don’t want you to die in the middle of a bomb attack.”

“O.k. I want to study__________.”

She never expected her father to take care of her forever, but she assumed he would until she had figured it out herself. That’s as easy as life could get, and this had been granted to her. Under this assumption, she chose to pursue a career in the arts. But first, she had to explore. Two years of different workshops and classes later, she had determined theater was the ultimate winner.

But at this time, above the opportunities that she’s had to see and learn and expand her mind, she considers art to be something pertaining to an elite. This was in part what got her fascinated in the arts to begin with. Not for nothing she had a certificate in Image Consulting, had recently dropped out of fashion school, and was more allured to the lifestyle so advertised of those artists who are highly celebrated by society than to art itself. For her, art was about creating beautiful things; things called art, worthy of elegant museums, worthy of high sums of capital, worthy of admiration, worthy of being exclusively owned, unworthy of many and worthy of a few. She had always been obsessed with the concept of exclusivity, not theoretically, but practically. She deeply enjoyed knowing that she had access to things most people didn’t. It made her feel better than… more powerful than…

Of course this is just one layer of what it was.

She did become fond of art as a means to express the mysteries and losses of the heart, the anxieties of the soul, and perspectives of the world. She disapproved of the divides between the traditional art mediums. Arts should create together, activate more potentials. There was theater, seemingly welcoming of collaborations between arts.

But having assumed daddy would work hard ( and she was right, daddy never stopped working hard) she failed to consider that in this world hard work not always pays off. Maybe she didn’t know, she always thought people got what they worked for. But do they? Everything changed.

I actually get to live the life of “the starving artist.” Whom I guess is not so anonymous as “the” but who is actually “me,” “I” starving artist. Never the less, in the most surprising, staggering, breathtaking and outrageous way, after of course having endlessly cried and kicked and screamed and still struggling through this, I find this phase of my life to be— the most challenging, yes, but also—the most exciting and rewarding yet. What art meant altogether to me before finding myself where I am now, is nothing in comparison to what art signifies today in my life. Suddenly art is a creative rage, a necessary passion, necessarily ugly at times; art is made to change the world, to transform lives, to elevate minds. Art is useless if it can only be seen and adored and applauded. Art must be performative or not be at all, art must improve the world or better die. Having said this, I believe every trade and occupation there is should be like art. Art is the only power that I have.

Slowly I have opened my eyes to the world, not only my own, the world at large— which is far uglier and more unfair than I could have ever imagined, but which is also more sublime and full of more potential than the world I thought I knew before: more magical and more capable. Art is the only power that I have.

I would not trade the place that my mind has encountered, my humanity, my unresolved endless unimaginable possibilities, or anything part of who I am today in exchange for some financial stability. I guess I am paying a high price for something that is actually invaluable, incalculable, immeasurable: arriving at being truly myself and seeing the world for what it truly is. Of course it “pricks like thorn,” it fills me up with anxiety and fears, it is heartbreaking at all levels; the helplessness of feeling trapped inside an empty hole fighting to kill old bourgeois habits, habits old enough and strong enough to die hard, habits that are useless and worthless. Art is the only power that I have, and art is where I choose to put my hopes on.

Growing up I was always encouraged to dream and dream big. There was nothing that I wouldn’t be able to do. And I was sure of it. I still am, although, under new terms.

On the matter of dreaming

and what is the untouchable matter of it

when young you are so told to dream

and forth you grow and dream to ever dream once more

To the power that we share,

Sunday.

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