I’ve thought that our souls are made of thoughts and feelings, built up by layers, like rolling a snowball, or repainting an old house. The general shape remains the same, but the color and texture becomes what was just added.
Thus, when we experience others’ thoughts or feelings, through empathy or art, it puts something of them onto our soul. After reading enough novels by one writer, I feel like I must, must, must write. The desire arising, I imagine, from my wants being papered over by a bit of those of the novelist.
If I tire of being me, can I immerse myself so fully in someone’s work that their soul walks this Earth once more? Can an artist ever truly die? Do you feel a little different with a bit of me forever inside you?
There are other songs. Or are there?
I’ve thought that our souls are made of thoughts and feelings, built up by layers, like rolling a snowball, or repainting an old house. The general shape remains the same, but the color and texture becomes what was just added.
Thus, when we experience others’ thoughts or feelings, through empathy or art, it puts something of them onto our soul. After reading enough novels by one writer, I feel like I must, must, must write. The desire arising, I imagine, from my wants being papered over by a bit of those of the novelist.
If I tire of being me, can I immerse myself so fully in someone’s work that their soul walks this Earth once more? Can an artist ever truly die? Do you feel a little different with a bit of me forever inside you?