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Life is an art, and in art I see myself.

The many big projects taken on by the many famous men before me to accomplish something exceptional have rendered them to a quality very few can replicate. I revere them, for they didn't sleep on their level. They saw life as an opportunity, not as a nuisance. An opportunity to explore and grow themselves into unprecedented forms. They are not special, but they did something special. I respect these men for their willingness to push themselves to a point where even their senses question the purpose of such effort. But they endure and come out ever stronger and formidable. The force of nature tries to turn them down, because nature doesn't like breaking rules. Breaking something doesn't feel natural to the untrained eyes. Breaking something feels wrong to the people who never try. But breaking is just as natural as creating. In fact, breaking is more necessary, sometimes a precursor to creating something. I'm inspired by these men who break themselves and build themselves from scratch again and again. To them, life is not a journey, not a race, and not a playground. Life is an art to them. They smudge their canvas, break their pen, tear their papers, burn their records, ruin their well-being, sacrifice their loved ones, reject their pleasure, and do many unthinkable atrocities. Only to draw a painting, write a novel, send a letter, tape a song, research a cure, provide a redemption, chase an ambition. These men are not to be rationalized; they are to be observed. They don't function; they simply act. History is created and destroyed by these men. They are exceptional, and rightfully so.

But they are humans. With all the necessities of a common man. They laugh, they cry, they love, and then they die. These unseen and unknown personal moments make them who they are. And combining both factors in life, their life becomes an art. The artist is not the person but the experiences, memories, and every significant or insignificant moment. I love these men. Because I'm one of them.

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