Why do I?

To answer the question, damned if I know.

Sometimes I wonder why I do the things I do. Hours of my life are spent taking pictures few will see, writing words few will read, composing songs few will hear, creating art few will experience. Is it time wasted? Is it a life wasted?

Yet there is that voice inside that pushes me forward to do these things. Without them, I am not whole, I am not true; I am not me. But like the tree that falls in the forest, if no one hears the song you sing, does your voice exist? Certainly it does, as does the tree. But does anyone care? More importantly, does it matter one way or the other if anyone cares?

Art for art's sake, art for the emotional sake of the artist, most likely describes the majority of notes, words and brush strokes created since the dawn of time. It feels good. It feels bad. It feels. A spirit from within is released as the soul of the work is captured. This is magic. But why do I feel the need to create?

As children, it seems we all have this creative urgency. Imaginations run wild in a world of pretend. Some never leave. Others do. Why? Doctors try to explain it away with left brain, right brain, nature and nurture. But it seems that there is something more. An secret yet undefined at the heart of art.

With the dawn of the internet, sharing art is a click away. Websites are filled with photos, drawings and MP3's uploaded by millions of people. You're reading my words, you see my photos, at another page you can hear my songs. Few of the many, but there nonetheless. It makes me no money, it gains me no fame, no one will remember me when I'm gone. So why should I do it? Why do I? Because.