but no one seems to care about honesty
so i spend too much time in my head
so i spend too much time in my head
'What counts as art?" If it's just making things, you make things all the time. Notes, plants, arguments. Is that enough to render you an artist? And if so, are you now obligated to join Bastien's guild?
"Oh. Well. I can create alternative worlds." You reply casually, far too casually for the type of magic you wield. "I could put someone into an alternative dimension and tailor it so that they work out their grief. Or so that they don't. They could see their loved ones forever and ever and never come out. Or...at least until I get tired." Then an idea occurs to you and you turn to Bastien brightly. "I could wait by the memorial! And pull people in who are grieving!"
You watch with interest as Bastien pantomimes emotions for you. Flipping to a blank page in your notebook you scribble down what you're seeing. "But..sometimes I see those faces when people are sick. Or sometimes people cry when they're happy." Frowning, you flip back deep into the pages you've already written upon. Your finger roams down the neat-writing until it stops, tapping on the page. "Sometimes people say they're fine and I act like they are, but they actually aren't and they say I should have known anyways and I get in trouble." Rather than being frustrated, you simply appear sad. "I don't mean to be impolite. I just...I don't understand." And it's true, you don't. Even when people tell you how they are, they're usually lying. Worse still, you're somehow expected to draw conclusions based on how eyebrows and nostrils flare and twitch.
Confidentially you write down Bastien's instructions. "At night. Artist's Sanctuary. Knock and see if Bastien is available." These are rules you can certainly follow, and you beam appreciatively at this strange man.
"Oh. Well. I can create alternative worlds." You reply casually, far too casually for the type of magic you wield. "I could put someone into an alternative dimension and tailor it so that they work out their grief. Or so that they don't. They could see their loved ones forever and ever and never come out. Or...at least until I get tired." Then an idea occurs to you and you turn to Bastien brightly. "I could wait by the memorial! And pull people in who are grieving!"
You watch with interest as Bastien pantomimes emotions for you. Flipping to a blank page in your notebook you scribble down what you're seeing. "But..sometimes I see those faces when people are sick. Or sometimes people cry when they're happy." Frowning, you flip back deep into the pages you've already written upon. Your finger roams down the neat-writing until it stops, tapping on the page. "Sometimes people say they're fine and I act like they are, but they actually aren't and they say I should have known anyways and I get in trouble." Rather than being frustrated, you simply appear sad. "I don't mean to be impolite. I just...I don't understand." And it's true, you don't. Even when people tell you how they are, they're usually lying. Worse still, you're somehow expected to draw conclusions based on how eyebrows and nostrils flare and twitch.
Confidentially you write down Bastien's instructions. "At night. Artist's Sanctuary. Knock and see if Bastien is available." These are rules you can certainly follow, and you beam appreciatively at this strange man.
