My apologies, this is another dark poem, with a happy(ish) ending. I saw a meme that said “Artists are people driven by the tension between the desire to communicate and the desire to hide –D.W. Winnicott”. I can relate to this. Art can be a savior for those wishing to hide. In the past I was perfectly OK with dropping though a hole in the ground and disappearing from people's minds. It was the ultimate hermiting fantasy. I've since touched so many people (and vice-versa), and now a vanishing act is no longer possible. Having those connections is a good thing, and the tensions of art have allowed me to be more present in the larger world.
Dark Fantasy Poem for Day 042 – 20141104
I had a dark fantasy, one of dying unattended, forgotten, alone. Nobody would attend my funeral, if I even had one, a non-event, nothing. All of my achievements are nothing, my failures vanish also, double whammy, wiped.
Gladly I will fail this fantasy, I will be remembered, commemorated, recalled. People will attend my funeral, a celebration of a life spend, a grand experiment, striving. I've accomplished works of art and science, failures have made me grow, celebrations of creation, and life.