So Long.

Art.

What does it mean?

What is "Art"?

Who's to say

What is

And what isn't?

Why should one have to decide

If something is art?

If it strikes something in one's soul,

Does that make it art?

Is art made by distraught and maddened

Men and women?

Or is made by the ordinary folk, as well?

Could I make art?

Is that possible?

Could I have already made art?

And not know,

As one shouldn't,

Or can't,

Know what art is.

Why should we know?

What does art prove?

Are there answers to these questions?

If you said yes would it be a lie?

My favourite definition of art would happen to be: "Art is a challenge to preexisting beliefs".

But does the arc of a rainbow challenge something?

Is it still art?

There are forever exceptions to every "rule".

I've sort of lost faith in "rules".

Again, who's to decide what everyone else should live by?

Rules, as cliche as this is, are meant to be broken.

I will ignore the rules if the need so presents itself to me.

What brings up such an impossible train of thought?

This book I'm trying to read.

"Trying" because it's quite discouraging, actually.

J.M Coetzee, you, sir, are masterful

And quite possibly cynical.

And your work "Youth"

Is thought-provoking, evocative, and crafted with obvious love and devotion.

And thought.

You must've thought a lot while writing this.

More than the average writer, I propose.

And it's lovely and I can see why you won a Nobel Prize in Literature with it.

But you're making me think on this subject of "art".

What makes art?

I'll stop while I'm ahead.

That brings me to the other object next to me.

Face wash.

Seemingly mundane, right?

No.

Also thought-provoking.

Have you ever washed your face and scrubbed so hard

That your face was almost raw afterwards?

Have you ever washed your face and expected a different person to appear in the mirror

After you washed the soapy mess from your face?

Why not?

Because I have.

And sometimes.

That happens.

I am a little bit different after washing my face.

After scrubbing away all the doubt and horror of any given day.

Or the good things.

Sometimes those get washed off too.

And I am left with a tired-looking, green-eyed girl.

With facial blemishes and pimples that give away her age

Of 16. When she wants to be older.

I am left with the girl who questions what art is.

Whose blonde hair is pulled away sharply from her sometimes too girlish face.

Not yet the face of someone wizened into adulthood.

I'm left with the very basis of me.

Starting back at square one

Every time I wash my face.

Do you ever feel that way?

I'm rambling off the questions, aren't I?

Sorry.

It happens.

And guess what.

I'm still feeling a little pukey.

Maybe more than a little.

So why not go and scrub away my face and start with

Square One?

Goodnight/evening,

I love you?

(But you frighten me)