#OrdoEaChoa

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!

Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;

Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;

Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep."

before grunt and holler became sound to signify, our hands did the talking, adorning cave walls with the images of our lives, and battles, and our meaning --

but art is within us somewhere too deep to pull out,

and even as we have grown to speak, too, we still create, and,

those of us who cannot paint, or sculpt, or animate, or film,

but still cannot escape the possession of drive to make, express ourselves the same way that humans always have --

in the only ways that we know how --

and, as poets often do, I wrote all of that, as preamble, to talk about you --

to say that, even if we think that poetry is less primitive than a painting on the wall of a cave,

the fact remains true that art is art, all the same --

which is all just how I am choosing to say,

no matter how it reads when I write about you, there is always something primal that remains --