Today I came to two very separate realizations, unconnected, only united by a very long, uncouth train of thought. One is that every day, or any day rather, you live the day that you will die on. Without knowing it, it will one day be the saddest event of your life and yet, at present, it could be the best. For example, today is April the first, and however ironic that may be, it could very well be the day that you die on a very long time from now. Or perhaps tomorrow or the next day. Every year we live this day unknowingly. Secondly, is that art loses its beauty when it becomes nothing more than a test of skill. For example, I saw something on this site earlier today that was drawn of ink. Every single detail on that page was brilliant, exact, without error, but that's all it was. It was a masterfully constructed piece of art of a forest scene. Nothing about it was unique, it was like looking at the scenery through a car window - it only mattered for half a second until something else sauntered into view. Even in that half second, I didn't appraise for its beauty so much as its skill. So is that really art? It would never be beautiful, but rather a triumph of great skill, it was skillful. It almost wasn't art because it seemed like it was constructed just to prove something, like math. I think art is not art unless it presents something worth remembering, even in small ways, something that is beautiful. It was not beautiful but horribly plain to perfection. I don't know what it was.