All of this interpreted information passed around every day, completely subjective and relative to our own limited existence.
What is it that I want to say? What do I want to put back into this animal soup from which I have extracted so much and yet so little? I am always in relation to something else, but ultimately there is no outside or inside, it just is. I always want to speak directly to someone. But I feel as if they either understand to a certain extent already whatever I could say, or never will, and if they do; what comes after? Does it really matter whether we agree or disagree on an idea? Even I am prone to changing my mind.
The universe is infinitely large and infinitely small, and somehow it is all connected, but the distance between any two objects is always infinite. We have our own self-conceived notions of distance, time and other abstractions set on a human scale, but there are some things that we may never be able measure. Do I feel confined by popular definitions? Can I really use words to articulate myself effectively if they have an accepted meaning but are simultaneously malleable? It is representation, not the actual thing, but even the actual thing is not a fixed thing. Can two people ever truly connect? What is my ultimate goal, not just in my creations, but in life? Should my art reflect this? At times the most primitive urges and actions seem to dispel all angst and focus the bulk of my existence to a fine point that aims toward a visibly attainable target, evoking a sense of momentary satisfaction when that target is reached. There are other times, though, when that distant and elusive sentient flicker of transcendentalism beckons and urges me to pursue it.
I can either stay within my comfort zone or move out into the wilderness. Do I think too much, or not enough? What is it all worth and who decides?