So I was, sitting there
Watching it on the screen
The expressions
Of pain, of love, of wonder
And my heart felt for them
Each moment swelling in my chest
Rising to my eyes
This reflection of humanity
Or someone’s interpretation of it
Because the screen is all fake.
Faked, channelled, pulled from real experience
So maybe real in some way.
Someone’s art
“Life imitates art
Far more than art imitates life”
Or so said Wilde.
That idea, I think about it often.
The more years that go by
The more I wonder
If all the culture I consumed when I was young
That seemed so far removed from my life at the time
Increasingly becomes reality around me
No longer outlandish
Dramatic
But relatable.
I wonder, is this my natural life?
Or like Wilde suggested, have I become what I saw?
Am I the imitation
The fake.
Life found it’s expression through what was offered
Would I have found the fog so pretty if someone had not suggested it first?
Would love and life hurt so much, be so complicated if that was not what art told me?
Am I the artist or the art?