Every now and then, I read something that reminds me why I write, and why I paint.
I read this piece in less than ideal conditions. It is about suffering a miscarriage in Mongolia, and I read it while while perched on the brick step next to the pool at my parents; house, where I work because there is wifi. Thunder rumbled in a swirling Joburg sky to the south, and guineafowl screeched and chrrrrred, but for a while I was on the other side of the world, in a hotel room and then a hospital with a doctor with a South African accent.
After I finished reading it, hunched over my phone, peering at words that were just a little too small, I sat still. I felt changed. The yesterday-today-and-tomorrow smelled different.
The writer of this piece is the same age as me, more or less. She moved me. She made me feel. She made me just a little more aware of the scent in the breeze and the cries of the birds, and how wonderful and terrible life is.That is the power of great writing. That is the power of art.
And that is what matters, and why I do what I do, cramming writing and painting into the spaces between PowerPoint and meetings, because those pay and art does not.
Because art can make others feel. Not many things can do that,