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A tendril of pink light dots the eastern skyline.
It splices the dark sky and the clouds open up,
precipitating a cascade of brilliance which descends from the heavens,
and illuminates the darkened world.
Now, the luminescence of the stars gives way,
and the eminence of the sun,
crescendos its presence in the sky.
A new day has begun.
There is nothing more potent,
than the beginning of a new day.
After all, we live in days,
in the sweeping time,
captured by the rise and fall of that burning inferno.
Our lives, our deaths, our celebrations, our failures,
all are captured in days.
But on this day, in this time,
there are no poets to notate this brilliant sunrise.
There are no painters, no artists,
who are able to bring into human existence,
that which we can only pretend to appreciate,
for this, this is the world of the future.
In this future, in this time,
art has given way to the demands of society.
Our art is the commentary
of the struggles, of the life,
of the common man.
One cannot say it is not beautiful.
The common man slaves for his sustenance,
each contraction of his muscle,
is his strain to support his family.
He was born into a world,
that despises the common man,
a world that glorifies greatness,
and demeans mediocrity.
But one cannot escape the bounds of mediocrity,
for living an average life,
is its very definition.
No, the common man can never achieve greatness,
for greatness is destined for a select few.
To be great, one must sacrifice a piece of themselves,
in order to branch out of their common human existence,
and become something they are not.
To be great,
one must destroy expectation, defy reality,
and change the world.
The common man is the man who realizes this,
and yet struggles against it anyways.
The tides of society are pitted against him,
and yet he still attempts to prevail the seas.
He is a solitary man on a solitary boat,
as he fights waves he can never hope to best,
and yet he continues on anyways,
surrounded by the billions of others,
ones he will never recognize,
for the struggle of the common man,
is one of bitter isolation.
One cannot say it isn’t beautiful.
But there is something amiss about it,
there is something of the Old Art that is missing.
They say the rhythms of the syllables,
can take the place of the drum,
and the melodies shaped by the words,
can displace those of the fife.
I stand to disagree.
I am an individual in this declaration.
In a society made up of forces,
I stand alone.
The common man,
he is no individual,
he is a force of the world.
The critic,
he is not even that.
The critic is a counter force,
one whose existence,
is dependent on that of another.
But I, an individual,
stand to disagree.
There is something about the Old Art.
Maybe, there is a reason music and pictures came before words.
Maybe, We were meant to draw, not write.
Maybe, We weren’t meant to speak, but sing.
There is something,
in the sweeping melodies of the strings,
as their notes dip and dive between clefs and keys,
in the warm, comforting sound of the woodwinds,
as they run up and down scales and staffs,
in the triumphant ring of the brass,
as they call down from haloed clouds,
in the beat of the percussion,
that drives into your very soul,
in the ways the harmonies of the vocals interact,
and bounce off of and react with each other,
there is something in that.
There is also something,
an indescribable feat,
in one man’s ability,
to capture all that nature presents to us.
The rise and fall of the mountain slopes,
as their jagged peaks, old as time itself,
stand as a symbol of the awesome and the unreachable.
The murmur of the cascading waterfall in the rainforest,
as the brilliant sunlight breaches the canopy and reflects off the falling water,
throwing the sparkling light onto the vibrant, green plants.
The radiance of the setting sun,
as it sprays a splash of vivid coloring,
above the frozen, arctic plane.
Yes, the Old Art has a certain power,
a certain influence.
A certain way it can infiltrate the mind,
of even the most apathetic human,
and pluck their heart strings in such a way,
as to generate chords of understanding,
and light a light in them,
that can be seen for miles.
In a future where art is merely the action of the common man,
action put into words,
words, mere mechanisms of language,
which are depended on to carry meaning,
in a world where the mystery and power,
of the Old Art has been lost,
I ask you now to listen that Old Art,
and experience the New Age Revival of ...