"Love love, hate hate."

Art to me, is not about beauty; There are many pieces I do not consider beautiful by any standard, yet would never seriously doubt as being a work of art.

Nor is it about function; that in itself constitutes design, and while art is part of design, design is not part of art.

Nor is it about cryptic messages or deep hidden meanings, as many would like you to believe.

Art to me, is about life, and perspective on life. It is the one channel of expression unobscured by the preconceptions of language and identity or by the purposefulness of design.

Art is simple, and simply about points of view - views of life as it is lived, life as we fear it might be lived, or life as we intend to live it.

So let it never be that art may become complicated, reserved for the elite few, incomprehensible by mere men - something hidden, exclusive and untouchable;

Because art is the language of God, spoken throughout Creation, imparted onto all of humankind.

Now, what is art to you?

"I feel most alive when I am least in control."

"Far worse than taking a man's life, is taking away his reason to live."

"Sometimes being in orbit gives us a false sense of security. We believe we are firmly anchored down, when in reality we are merely drifting together."

"We naturally value things by how much we had when we got them. Thus we find ourselves trapped in an endless cycle - the more we have, the less valuable what we have becomes."

"I was easier to satisfy, once. Once, when I had less."

"Pain makes gain possible, not inevitable."

"Water stirrs when added."

"Look before you leap...but please, for goodness sake don't forget to leap."

"The greatest acts are often the most difficult, yet not every difficult act is great."

"Urgent words often get drowned in pointless phrases."

"Focus."

"If no one listened, would you still speak?"

"In seeking perfection, strive not simply to quell imperfections - perfection is a state where imperfections wholly contribute to progress."

Drip, drip, drip.
It wouldn't cease to leak,
The pail was nearly full but yet,
My thoughts mere turned to bleak.

Why did I choose to fill this pail?
This pail when filled with water, fails?
My thoughts cannot but question why?
How have I this time failed?

Perhaps I should plug up the cracks,
Fill in the gaps with melted wax,
Perhaps someway, maybe somehow,
The leaking will be laxed.

Drip, drip, drip.
Yet the sealant seemed too weak,
The wax if nothing only caused,
The leaking sounds to peak.

Perhaps I should find out the cause?
Defeat the devil at its source?
Or maybe deafly thread the path,
Without this dull discourse.

For it was obvious from the crack,
There'll be no use in turning back,
Refill this pail, it'd leak again,
The skies were turning black.

Drip, drip, drip.
I beg the pail to tip.
Empty its contents on the floor,
An empty pail can't drip.

Perhaps when all the water's spilled,
The pail'd be dry, my heart'd be still,
For if it gets the drip to cease,
Silence will be my fill.

Bravely now I tip the pail,
Released my hold, no hope for bail,
The water gladly gushed upon,
The tattered cobble trail.

Drip, drip, drip.
The mental echoes speak.
The pail in silence, victory mine;
An empty pail can't leak.

"Remember the chunner days."

"The wait makes the waited for, worthwhile."

"An empty pail doesn't leak."

"Grasp not the loose rocks."