THE ART OF THE LONELY

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THE ART OF THE LONELY
        I look up at the lonely moon. For a while it shone through. I looked closely at its carvings. The emptiness that guides its subtlety. It was vain, transient, a veil in the moment that swiftly passes; etched down across many memories, existing only to see the reality of the others.
       The moon is a lonely friend. High up in the stillness of the clouds it stays, neither persisting in its glory nor repelling the urge of the others. It sits, lonely in the clouds, reflecting in the stillness, the reality of everything around it. Is that all it exist for? Does all its constant life dwell in the sudden moment of being a shadow of the greater purpose of something else?
      When morning comes the sun will spread across the sky. Proud unwavering silky sun, it will lay its guild on every sight, golden rays of pride. The sun is both master and punisher. Bright, hot, warm, gentle and harsh. It is conditioned to be whatever it dares to be. But as I look from the veiled curtain of my window, I realize that I am a spitting image of the moon. I am an art of the lonely.
      The art of the lonely is an art of reflections, not of self but of everything that the eyes see. We converse, relate, observe, study and create a voice so beautiful, it moves in the words we write, the lyrics of the music we compose, the stroke of the paint that we absorb, the mold of the clay that we carve. The art of the lonely speaks its own language. It speaks so gentle we hear its authenticity. Yet in the end, the art is only but a reflection of the desires that the lonely seek.
     But who are these figures that we call “lonely”? What are their traits? Do they exist in this reality or are they just the imagery of a cosmic intelligence? Are they literal or figurative? The questions pile as I sit at this hazy window, trying to decipher the maze of the thoughts that have come this morning.
     The lonely are not the ones without friends; far from it. For they have a lot of friends, they are not the quiet stricken ones for in their right, they speak a lot. They are not depressed for in their musings they find an ethereal fantasy, big enough to guide their waving minds.  The lonely are not the conceptual, pain stricken ideal; they are in essence a word, a depiction of the complex world that they live in.
     The lonely are those who dream, when others stutter at the impossible, they drift around their minds, gaining questions to answer questions. The lonely are the ones, who see the pictures in the noise, who find the fun in the complex ideals, who love the unexplainable and calmly seek to speak its language. The lonely are those who commute in the background, building a new world with their minds and fragile fist; the lonely are not just people, they are the people who embraced the different.
     Yet the lonely never belong. For their voices has no weight. They constantly speak, but not in the tones that our simplicity seeks.
     The art of the lonely is an art of reflections; reflections of purpose, direction and desire. The art that they make speaks not of their own voice, but a voce of an existence that transcends the physical reality that they exist. The art of the lonely is a selfless voice, which calls for greater purpose outside of the purpose of the artist, a lonely road not for self but for the good of others. A path that may be walked with others but still remains a lonely road, the art of the lonely requires the voice that we own to be calm; to never grow impatient towards the goal that is sought.
     The moon is our lonely friend. Under the guise of its low lit light we stay, we write poetry, sing the folktales of our own reflections, we carve the worries of our soul and gently draw the scaffolds that bind our reality. In our loneliness we feel free, sometimes the thought of quitting grows deep but the moon shines on, reminding us that we reflect a greater purpose, one that outlast the mortal needs of our time.
     The art of the lonely is a road of purpose. Finding the world when finding our own self. My pen would rest now that my point is made  

   
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