you decide what it contains

i'm ashamed… who am i if i don't output? what am i worth? what is all the sensory input for if i'm not to observe and report… to unveil surprising and not-so-surprising ideas? i really can't say that life has any more meaning than that. the sad part is, art can only go so far. the beatles, in their infinite wisdom, and humongous sales, timeless generations of fans won't be so timeless when millions, billions of years have passed. "let it be" will mean nothing to life, other than its limited impact on billions of people(!), in a very limited space in the uni(omni?)verse. what is the point of our art, then? it will, in full effect, never be full. but, therein, lies my contradiction. the fullness exists in the artist. life has now become complete for the artist once the art has escaped him... a pureness is reached. i've become emotionally confused because i'm lacking in the simple ritual of releasing. i've nothing more to add to this piece, seeing as how i'm merely saying i should be making some art, which i'm gonna go do