I dream of days when men can walk the earth free of fear and anxiety.
When there is no need for art to quell the dread of mystery, I hope there will still be time for artists to look back on what they accomplished in darker times.
Because does art ever fix anything? Do band-aids heal wounds?
I think they are supplemental covers, that in some respect prolong the healing process, but satiate the pain and its fear of.
A poet once told me, “Make it beautiful. Take reality’s dark side and show the unearthed gems in light.”
A comic once said, “Look into the hideousness of it all. Confront it for what it is, and see there is nothing to fear. Laugh.”
Whatever the approach, I see a similar bravery between two classes of people, poets and clowns, who lack the strength of a soldier but charge into the human condition with the same uncompromising bravado.
Now, classically speaking, I am meant to end with a solution to embracing a life that seems intent on horrifying us. I have no solutions, only pretty words and band-aids. I am just as alone as the rest. And for some reason, I can’t help but think that the smartest man on Earth is too, terrified of dying. And that, to me, is comforting.
Eric Wong is a writer in San Francisco.