All art is made in conversation, in words spoken about all things possible by people who did not have much to do on a banal afternoon. There is inspiration in the awkward silence after you say something and someone disagrees with it. Then, instead of an argument, you get a bout of quiet before they tell you how the pasta is terrible, and you tell them the coffee is burnt. Then, you question why you even visit the place as regularly as you do. But the disagreement has happened, and the inspiration has struck; that is all art is about.
Art is not proving what you have to say is worthwhile or true, but only that, like all people, you have something to say. The correctness of it is often up to the times. All banality is art. All things to do are the enemy of art simply because they are a deterrent to the possibility of pointless discourse. An artist is someone who, when asked about what they do on a general day, almost always answers they don’t do much. The everydayness of sitting, staring at a screen, and fidgeting with a pen rather than getting some work produces more vivid poetry than the amber sky, stolen from the backdrop of paradise. And what is more, the poems are more honest than anything a romantic could write, simply because they are real. They come from regularity.
Not everyone can see the most beautiful sky, for not everyone sees beauty the same way. The night sky looks like home to many, and some love the cerulean reflection of the ocean at the first light of the morning. Some prefer golden sunsets, and some like the overcast greys. But all people are bored in the same way. They look at a screen and wonder: what am I doing here? And sometimes, they ask: does this matter? Do I matter? And all people do this, and all do it the same way. The poems they write after this will always be more universal.
No one can agree on what heaven looks like, but everyone knows the muggy afternoon in the middle of August when they realise another year has ended. No matter what someone does, they will feel this furtive approach of December, and all of them will sit for a second, wondering. They will tell a friend about it over coffee.
And then, some will make art out of it.