I’ve thought about what it is what I get from literature, and art in general I guess, what its for. The thing that guides me through it when I write it and what I’m looking for when I read it. I’ve thought about it for years. Something clicked in the shower, and so I’m writing it down while its lucid.

There’s a freedom and limitlessness behind every moment. We stymie that all the time while we go throughout our day, let things get away, get sad, get mad, get distracted, but it’s always there. It’s always potential.

The point of art is to draw that out and let it be felt. Anyway you can accomplish that, there are no further rules—just draw it out. Once its there, you can stop. Step back, bask it in. There’s an incredible joy to that.

If one feels sad, it should only be because that transcendent thing has escaped you. If one feels angry, it should only be because the transcendent thing escapes you. If one feels joys then, well, you’re probably feeling that transcendent thing.

I write in pursuit of that particular joy. (Freedom? Release?)

This is me feeling whimsical and grandiose on this late night. I’ve put it into words so it probably won’t feel right when I wake up in the morning and read it back. It’ll sound a bit silly. But I wanted to articulate to myself why it is that some art hits me so deeply and other art does not—I’ve never been very good at that.