I read somewhere, during my brief stint in college, an essay that I loved, by an author I’ve since forgotten. It was about art and human communication. I wish I could find it again. The basic gist of it was that art is not the glorious beautiful perfect wonderful thing. It’s not a goal that we should strive for. What it is is actually a by-product. An artifact of failure. It’s what’s left standing in testimony to our ability as humans to never really achieve perfect communication with one another. To never really be able to share in complete fullness the experience of what it’s like to be inside one skin to somebody inside some other skin. And that this imperfection isn’t something to be sad about, but that it makes us who we are. That our weakness is really our strength at the end of the day.

If anybody has any leads on who I might be remembering, and where they wrote it, I would love to be reunited with it. Although, maybe it’s one of those things that it opens some door when you first read it, and you find it at a key time in your develop. It serves its purpose then, And going back to it, trying to rekindle that wonder, will ultimately fall flat. Who knows.