I think that most Artists and Writers think a lot about three things: Sex, Death and God. Personally, God can take care of themself, and I’m not getting any sex. So let’s talk about Death, specifically, Death and the Artist… or Writer in my case.
Once in a while, quite erratically, someone says something, and it triggers some random synapses in my brain, and for no discernible reason, I say something sensible. It’s always disturbing when it happens, and often quite frightening for anyone nearby. It’s like discovering that a Bengal Tiger has hacked your GPS and passwords. But anyway, since I had one of those moments, I thought I’d share, for people in the arts field.
Suppose you’re a writer or an artist, someone in the creative field. A poet, a playwright, a short story writer or a novelist, a composer, a lyricist, a film maker, etc. Maybe you are, in which case my sympathies.
Maybe you aren’t, in which case, just pretend.
Now, suppose you’re going to die.
Well, there’s no supposing that is there? You’re going to die, in relative terms sooner than later, and in geological terms, any minute now.
But never mind that – as an artist or a writer, what happens when you die?
THE POST MORTEM LIFE