The sandwich

Instructions

there is one thing that is undeniable; absurd to do the very action of denying of. my mind is a ravenous beast, and i must feed it. and as such, many others can relate. but must i create a compelling masterpiece, one that finds success in its incredible attention for small details? one that must provide sociopolitical commentary while offering an immersive view on a fictional world? what does it mean to create a masterpiece? what defines it? i suppose a masterpiece, the very definition of it; it is not merely defined by the dictionary. perhaps it changes, in each and every vast world, and how can there be billions of such different worlds in one world? such different, yet so complex, yet so similar worlds? do they all share something? and each second, is it true that one of these worlds is newly created? yes, maybe it is. but that is beyond the point. what if it doesn't take to make a masterpiece to make one? for such complex and deep philosophical question... it baffles me. i must ask: what is art? the dictionary tries to define it... but it is beyond definition. is it merely an expression, or is it something much more? what is considered as art? it varies as much; from a simple painting of a hand on a cave, to a renaissance painting. i guess that is the beauty of art; so wide, anyone can make it. so then, what does not count as art? no, no; there must be something that defines it, something that sets its borders. for the world would be in shambles, if one merely taped a fruit onto the wall; and called it art. the shame, the agony, the audacity; is it too much to bear? what matters in art... the art itself, or the feeling, the meaning, the story behind it? what if both matter... and society just doesn't know yet? who made art? art is so complex, so specific... how did such culture come from nothing? or can something come from nothing? is art, an action? an action of anything? is a talent, rather than design, an art? it could be both. all these questions: they may be with me to the grave. my foolish mind is beyond comprehending such thing. but what is the point of being gifted a mind by God, if you are not to comprehend? circles, i go in circles, i tell you! this tires me. as for now, i shall express myself within the genre of comedy. so simplistic, yet so complex; laughing, happiness itself is undeniably strange. i take pride in the most outlandish, specific scenarios: a green griffin, perhaps stealing a sandwich, which then becomes unsatisfied, and proceeds to go to a store? how weird, how stupid. and yet, i like it. how could this possibly be art? then maybe, i suppose art really is about the feeling behind it. or is my mind just biased, just as everyone else, just a weensy more than the average? am i any better? the answer: no. how the truth pains me; like pouring salt on a wound.