I sift through a life time of memories in the space of one afternoon, tossing out handfuls of life as though they are simply the splinters on the floor. Yet what part is not important in the cycle of each life? What part can be thrown away and still allow the rest to continue on as before?
Perhaps this is only visible in hind sight. The statue that stands balanced and dark reflects light in all the right places. Only then does the artist know he is finished.
From that point on, it is up to the finished piece to prove its own staying power and the artist may sweep his floor, throw away the extraneous chips and sit back in peace.
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