“What is art? I feel as if a lot of modern art is something I could have done. Or any five-year-old for that matter.” He says, and she flashes a wry smile that is somehow reminiscent of the flashing fire alarms still sounding in the background.
“The simple answer? Everything is art.” Smile still in place, he guffaws at her answer.
“But how is that possible? Are you saying that I could go sit in a museum and be considered art?” His tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Why not?” She said almost immediately, taking him aback.
The universe, and everything in it, is a work of art. Perfectly sculpted pieces of a beautifully disastrous collage. Built to morph as new additions are made and old slices fall away. Exchanging skin, like a cold-blooded snake growing larger, the expansion of the universe sheds its history through black holes.
“Nothing can ever be created nor destroyed.”
Energy absorbed and let back out into the world. A void. Trapped in the depths of the darkest blackness. Our futures lie just beyond our reach. Yet we are always living in them.
Change is the meaning of life.