In every intelligible reality, in belief rendered viable, the place of sacrifice, the wound, must be found. A being is only touched at the point of vulnerability, at that time and place where it succumbs. The wounds of injury, hurt, pain, suffering, grief, anguish, agony, distress, ordeal, trauma are the places the light gets in to heal you. Darkness is the absence of light. Darkness is also the opposite of light. Darkness conceals. Light elucidates. Light reveals. Though you return to darkness in sleep, it is deepness, profoundness, vividness, not blackness. In sleep, may the wounds be healed, but may the scars remain, reminders of the gauntlets run, the lessons learned, the triumphs won. In dreaming, challenges confronted, traumas overcome, the mercy of isolation deshadowing, disenshrouding all misgiving, virtue, worthiness now exposed. Art is personal, autobiographical. The depth of one’s experience cannot exceed the height of one’s experience, and vice versa. The depth of one’s pain cannot exceed the height of one’s joy. A life lived vicariously cannot produce art. A life without passion, devotion, adoration, sacrifice, commitment, obsession, pain, and joy cannot create art. Fear is an emotion, a contrivance of the mind. It is not a real response to a genuine stimulus. With fear unlearned, alone in a world by fear made sightless, ignorant, mute, how to persevere untainted, vision confronting blindness, brilliance opposing ignorance, candour obstructing pusillanimity? Fire or ice, on in between, the choice must be mine alone to sense. Every twenty-one, an octave. The first, determining integrity to carry on – volition defying circumstance, destiny countering prediction – to flee from hell’s confinment. Hyper-crescendo climaxing in transmuted evolution, a revolution born. All the rules must be broken. Life is not a sport, not win and lose, but life and death. That life denied to those who try keep all of its advantages at once.