The Truth About Art

The truth is that I am lonely. Watching and waiting, always waiting for the person who will deeply and fervently know me. Passersby lend their attention and admirers lend their hours, but rarely do they borrow the weight I carry. The truth is that my creation and reason for existence was not to be known or admired. I was painted to life by a feeling and an idea or two. There is only one person who will ever be familiar with every brushstroke and intention, and the truth is that I am their effort to be known, too.