Should I Make Sense or Art?
"You either make art or make sense." – This is the truest sentence I have come across these days.
I don’t make sense – and I don’t even have to.
The best thing is: I don’t even want to.
I don’t want to make sense to anyone but myself.
And finally, I do.
No more doubts, no more misunderstandings.
My mind is my tool, my playground.
I know what I want, just not how—but I will always find a way.
I am the raccoon in the rabbit hole, the living contradiction.
The one who can sit down for four hours just to draw straight lines to learn how to draw (but only after watching two hours of YouTube videos to find the perfect technique).
And then would rather choose not to eat anything for a day because making a sandwich requires too much attention.
Who would spend three hours searching for the answer to whether you can use a severed eye to fool a sensory scanner.
But searching for the nearest restaurant seems like a problem that cannot be solved.
Who will get up in the middle of the night and make an escape plan for a friend from her abusive husband 200 km away.
But won’t text her back for three months.
Who can build an entire world out of nowhere.
But fails when she has to follow the daily routine she created for herself.
Who will walk back and forth around the room while playing with a leek in her hands to figure out what X is hiding from her.
But cannot stick to a decent walking routine.
So yeah, I guess I don’t really make sense.
But it is fun.