“ I cannot tell which one of us is writing this page”

passes into oblivion, or to my other. I cannot tell which one of us is writing this page. The same could be said I’d imagine for anyone call-ing themselves a proper artist. When the pen is picked up, the brush is filled with paint, the paper is stacked, the canvas is primed, it is then we cease to be to be a singular entity. Instead we are locked in a struggle to remain in harmony with whats on the otherside. We see our names on our works, our hands holdingthe tools that put the lines on the parchment and materials, but our hands and names belong to them. They are our muses,the lights in our eyes, the passion behind the thought, the revenants with our faces and our bodies. You could say that you, and you alone created your poem, your painting, your sculpture, but you would be lying. Perhaps that is why we take to having names that are

not really our own, the name of the artist in representation for the person. We are simply hosts to the others, vessels for their genius and their demons. More and more they feed us while they consume us, making us fat then filling their bellies. Does it make any sense? Probably not, not to anyone that didn’t know there was another face behind the mirror. Little makes much sense to me anymore in this peculliar world of poems, words and prose, but it makes sense to Borges.

31November 20 12