It's a journey. Same story. Resolution is required.

Sitting down to write a story has a target point, each and every time. "The End". We're all working toward the same thing.

People everywhere have a target point they aim at—all day, every day. The day opens on a target: awakening. And so it goes, until peaceful sleep is the aim, dreams swirl and play out, and the cycle begins anew, a new story or episode rolling one after another to contribute to a lifetime. 

Visual art is much the same. I've dabbled in a lot of things during my lifetime. None panned out—there's apparently no true gold to be found in my stream of consciousness. 

Long ago, I figured out the online writing (or visual art) community is almost entirely comprised of people with one or more disabilities, more often than not motivated by a dire need to supplement sparse income. Unfortunately, we all end up knowing it's a rigged game. (Sure, you can get social services aid—which will be yanked at least in part the moment you make a single penny from your beloved labors. You'll get yelled at and guilted by social workers. Or you quit trying to work at what you can do quite well, turning to the plodding make-work instead.) Not a single one of the desperate, aging, and/or disabled ever make it to a higher plateau in the suvival struggle. The art form becomes a joyful distraction and the glue that holds hope and a sense of community.

It's inevitable. Dark lines converge, owls hold court, and even the reflected light from a full moon only highlights a deep red, glistening midnight. Hope crosses its palms, prim in its demise. 

On becoming adults, we're taught to put away childish play things, to look for practical work, shirts buttoned neatly to chin. An artist is someone who survives those transition years still young at heart, still much in possession of the ability to have fun without guilt. 

The irony is that, without artists, we'd have nothing but occupational slavery. Books, movies, paintings, even the labels on cans or packages require a creative mind. Doing the work is a labor of love, because there's more money to be made higher up the chain of sales. 

Disabled people are routinely chivvied into occupational slavery positions because "that's not a viable job... you can't make a significant income from arts!" 

Well, no shit, Sherlock. I wonder how that happens, don't you‽ And moreover, why? 

Nobody cares. There's no Renaissance. In recent months, it's gotten worse. Artists and big, powerful horses are only good if some noble knight can saddle up to ride into the Crusades—or at least tilt at windmills. Watson, a.k.a. Sancho Panza? 

Well, flip my laptop for a Frisbee. Staring at the walls is the new therapeutic counselling. It pairs well with a bottle of cheap rotgut and a few prescription narcotics. Or eggs, if you can afford any. I plead out on all counts: my alibi is mad allergies.

Either way, "the end" is nigh. I've lost any interest in the religions of others, cognitive dissonance politics, the entire stock market bear and bull drama (mostly bull 🐂 💩), and being denigrated for who and what I am. I refuse to apologize. 

The End. 🕯️