But we, after all, are all works of art. We are art when we tie the long hair that covers our faces in a ponytail or when we listen to that song that makes our wrists tremble and makes our eyes water. We are art when we dance, alone, in an empty room, following a music that runs through our veins and makes us feel free. We are art when with our tears we write poems on our cheeks, on our arms. We are art when we fall asleep over our favorite book or stay awake, late into the night, with a thousand sighs stuck in our throats and open cuts on our skin that burn, lashed by the air, relieved only by the vision of the stars, which burn, in the freezing January sky and we, enraptured by their beauty, just want to shine with them, like them, away from that cold balcony where we stare at them. For us the universe is art. The planets are art. The stars are art. Not us. We who are scribbles, intricate, twisted tangles, made on dirty and damaged sheets. Yet if only we could see each other when we talk about who or what we love. Our eyes shine with a light identical to that which the stars give off. And it is not a reflection, it is not external to us, but internal, it is hidden in our heart. Because we are nothing but simple fragments of fallen stars that have never lost the strength to shine. We are art.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 