“I may be young, but I can see it so clearly, that this artistic life is full of nothing but doubt and self-loathing, and will never give you anything real, anything you can hold in your hand and keep forever. It’s a slippery fish that might swim off at any moment, but it also has such attraction you can’t help running after it, like someone possessed.”
– Who Murdered the Month of May, from Ten Loves, Zhang Yueran
Photographs fade, scores are lost, art works collect dust, literature go out of print, dances are forgotten..
Basically every method of preservation we employ, despite their quality and quantity, is ultimately still impermanent.
They may last for decades and centuries, but what about the millennium after this, and the millenniums after, and the light years after that?
Everything that comes from non-being will eventually go back to that. The cycle of life.
Yet, we continue to create and preserve, taking our chance with making a mark in various fields of expression, almost as if the meaning of our existence can be validated by the futility of theirs.