Working

Work work work work work. Write write write write. Draw draw draw draw.

So much to do. Creating content. Consuming content. Sleeping.

A man, or woman for that matter, would be hard pressed to do everything he, or she wants to do out of sheer lack of time. Maybe he will do, say, 60% of what he actually wants to do. Say he's an artist at Pixar. What happens to the other 40%? Does it simply go forgotten, perhaps sitting on a shelf or in a desk inside a sketchbook? Or does it become subsumed, or consumed, by the imaginations of those around him?

This man might like to think that his creations will live long after he's gone. What if his creations that never set foot outside his mind, his desk, his sketching permeated those around him, infecting him with his passions, his creatures of thought and imagination, effectively becoming an infection of artistry?

We all wonder where ideas come from, though we know, on some level, that you can't get something from nothing. Thus maintaining that ideas, though, perception, suspicion come, not only from direct physical experience, but an unseen experience of connected consciousness.

So, suppose this man dies. He dies and he knows that his creations, the 40% of what he wants to do, will disappear with him. Only 5 years later, his daughter finds an old sketchbook, looks through it and finds characters, monsters, cartoons, some of which bare an uncanny resemblance to what her daughter watches on TV, shows that have been on for only a couple of years. Chalking it up to coincidence, she keeps the sketchbook anyway, enjoying the though of having such a private item of her father's.