Benedetto Croce believed that Art came from the core of humanity. That singing came before speaking and drawing before writing. Art isn't something exclusive to developed mercantile societies. It's something that lives within all of humanity. Try as the cultural elite might; you cannot gate keep artistic expression.

That Art is the product of the hungry spirit within humans- the desire to craft something of meaning; to make sense of not only the world around them but the world within them. As Viktor Frankl stated, "Life is never made unbearable by circumstances, but only by lack of meaning and purpose." We have to have a reason, find it, or create it, why things are the way that they are. These reasons come from a singular point of view that's a synthesis comprised of all the input received from life experience before delivery.

We, as individuals, cannot state or create all-encompassing truths. We are not omniscient or omnipotent- our earthly limits bind us- but what grand limits they are! Already, we are blessed as we are cursed with present thought. Self-awareness is the Devil that perches on the shoulder of us all. Is it not true that the Devil doesn't damn? He offers information- what we do with that information falls upon our heads. We are the Gods that can damn our existence.

There are two absolutes in this life of ours: The Start and The End. Even those have unanswerable questions attached to them. Is this consciousness purely biological? Does it die with our grey matter? What does this brief foray into the aware mean for us? The grandest question is the simplest and broadest, like the shoulders of Lenny: "Why?"

It's the echoing cry of those who suffer without meaning. It is the curse uttered by lost Gods: "Why?"

They beseech the sky, their fellow man, and the world itself. But outward answers are loud and thin, tearing with pressure. It is only the internal voice that can provide that curse lifting reprieve. The Gods must find their fountain of knowledge, neigh, acceptance, within themselves; and bathe their weary bones in its waters.