. . . an ideal version of the self.
Within us we aspire to some great exemplar
of a physical, emotional, intellectual and spiritual being.
When I conjure that ideal man in my mind
he is wise and wizened, tells me over and again:
“An artist must suffer for his creation
sometimes for long and desperate years,
perhaps even unto to his own demise.
Only then after his passing
is value found in his work.” I now realize that
the ideal self within me, the purest reflection of my soul,
wishes it were dying . . .