"The world is sick and adapting to an unwell environment will not bring real health." -Thich Nhat Hanh-

Today we do not live but merely survive. We are all victims of survival, and as Thich Nhat Hanh had said, we are simply "adapting to an unwell environment." We are putting up with the status quo; whether or not we like it is a whole different story altogether. We change different aspects of our lives such that the terrible conditions will not affect us, but they already have. As Gandhi once said, "If you want change... be that change." Many of us are in perpetual denial about the state of our lives; problems do not go away simply by ignoring that they do not exist. Rather than finding a solution to theft, assault, or rape, some of us carry a can of pepper spray to ward off intruders. Nothing is being solved, only disregarded.

Usually a "home" is considered a place where one can go for relief, a haven from everything awful, twisted, and depraved. A home is full of familiar, soothing scents, comforting noises and creaks, beloved family members, and perhaps even a loyal pet.

Not for the elderly.

So often the elderly are placed in a nursing home, where they remain until their death. No excitement, no glamour, only bedpans, sponge baths, and Depends. Too big a burden for their family so they are merely cast off, more often than not, by their very own sons or daughters.

They began life as infants, and now in their old age, they are taken back to infancy, talked down to by the nurses' motherese tones as if the elderly are nothing but wrinkled toddlers. They are expected to keep occupied by playing chess, reading, or lying in bed watching the television. They slowly wobble throughout the halls, eyes glazed over from hours of staring at the TV. And when asked, "How are doing today?" there is only a faint reply, "Miserable."

But what can one expect? They are sent to a home where others are paid to take care of them because it was too much of a hassle for the family to do it on their own. They are trapped in boredom, with only dreariness and apathy to keep them company.

How often are the nursing home residents visited by family members or friends? How do they pass day after day doing the same exact activity they did the day before? How are they really treated in these homes? Are they at all happy? Is it even half as bad as I assume? How do the nurses deal with the odor of death constantly lingering in the air?

Is there even a big secret that everyone is searching for? There must be or there would be mass suicide. Maybe they are all in perpetual denial. What’s the point of living if there’s no big picture? Maybe that’s why some commit suicide; they realize there is no big picture, no secret of life that needs to be discovered. Hell, why am I still here?

Secret of life. Ha. Maybe somebody fabricated this notion to give us something to ponder. Subliminal messages. Some guy sitting at his desk, hacking into our minds via the world wide web, telling us what’s “cool,” socially acceptable or unacceptable, telling us that there’s a “secret of life” that we need to discover in order to feel complete.

Somebody made this concept up. Some monk sitting around talking to his fellow monk-comrades about some secret of life, some mission that we’re all secretly on, and they spread the word so that now the whole world is going nuts trying to find it.

Finding it in their wealth, but even after consuming a number of prostitutes, cars, and summer cottages/mansions, they still feel incomplete. Finding it in their political power, but even after trying to run the world through lies and corrupting people’s minds, they still feel incomplete. Finding it in their stardom, but even in their newfound glory, pedestal lives, and guest starring on talk shows, they still feel incomplete. Finding it in their CEO positions, but even after firing the “little people” on a whim, and driving and honking angrily in their Suburbans because they might be two minutes late to their nine-to-five climb up the corporate ladder, they still feel incomplete.

It’s all a preconceived notion to give meaning to our stupid, little lives. We are like ants in one giant ant farm, scurrying about, searching in fervor, until someone accidentally knocks the ant farm over, and we all run about like freshly slain, headless chickens.

I applied to Massachusetts College of Art [in Boston, MA], and I was required to write a Statement of Purpose to be mailed along with my application form. There was no specific topic to write about; it was free for me to decide.

Clad in combat boots, purple hair, and a tongue piercing, I have stepped closer to the precipice of adulthood. I have been on this earth for eighteen years, yet still I feel like a virgin to the vast unknown that I will soon enter. Authority has tried to prepare adolescents for the adult realm, but no one could prepare them for disillusionment that reality abruptly provides.

The only honest, certain aspect of life that I have found is in creating art. Amidst all the corruption, hatred, and ignorance, there is a beauty to the world, and in that beauty and ugliness is the key to art. During my teenage angst and my periodic states of melancholy, I found a peacefulness in the sadness through art. Where anger once was, patience has taken over. Where misery once housed, tranquility has moved in.

There is a transformation that takes place as I get lost deep within my artwork. Nothing else in the world matters, except getting the piece to come out exactly how I wish it to be. Through art I find my outlet from all that irritates, saddens, and angers me, because I can displace those emotions onto paper and leave them there. Any pain or sorrow that I may be feeling at the moment is no longer there. It is as if it had been washed away by an early morning shower, where all has been touched by rain, cleansed and purified.

I live my life through a facade. What people see me as is only what I project to them. Only through art can I truly be honest with myself as well as others. We can lie to ourselves and we can lie to others, but art comes from the heart; even the heart cannot lie.

Art conveys much more than color and line. It has meaning and depth, and can often mimic real life. Much of what can be found around us also exists in art, such as one’s own reflection in a mirror. In a piece created last year, I had written a poetic essay of finding oneself’s identity, titled "The Journey Home." The essay is written atop of a mirror shaped as a house. While reading the essay of exploring identity, one is also gazing at his or her reflection.

Art can also mimic the beauty and ugliness in real life. "Beast," an exaggerated self-portrait, is an attempt to capture the ugliness that is prevalent in all people; jealousy, hypocrisy, conceit, and hatred, to name a few. Despite the ugliness that may seem ubiquitous at times, I still manage to find the beauty in the world. Photography can capture the essence of life; people’s expressions, their interactions with one another, and the love they share for each other.

My entire life encompasses art; the way that I perceive the environment, the people, and reality has been influenced by art in one way or another. I find art in everything that I do, in everything that I see, in everything that I hear, and in everything that I feel. Without art, I would be nothing but a lifeless, empty being, devoid of all emotion and ambition. I would be dead.

This was an assignment for English class [senior year, high school] where I had to write a monologue pretending I was one of the characters from Mourning Becomes Electra, By Eugene O'Neill. I chose to be Christine Mannon.

CHRISTINE: (staring into a mirror) I wish I were dead. Death, such a salvation. How much I long for it to overcome my body. Look at me, look what I’ve become. So hideous, so vile, so old. Age has taken all beauty away. I was once beautiful, inside and out. Now look at me. I’ve killed my husband, but I had no choice. How ordinary and common he became outside his lieutenant uniform. So plain and simple. And each night while I gave myself to him— I can’t even look at my own reflection in the mirror. (She turns her head away sharply, in disgust and self-hatred.) Life has become so pointless, so utterly meaningless. Oh, but Adam, he gave me meaning. Those days of passion and beauty...and love so sweet it hurt. But those days are gone now. Oh, Orin, how could you?! To take all happiness away from me. The war has changed my baby. My poor, sweet baby. You’ve been corrupted into a vengeful being. How much you resemble your father. How could you become such— such— (Her anger subsides, and her face softens.) I’ve only loved you with all my heart. I have always been a good mother to you. Protecting you, helping you, nurturing you. That day you were born, you were mine, all mine. Not tainted by the Mannon blood, but simply a child from my womb. (She smiles slightly and holds her stomach. Suddenly grief washes over her face.) Oh, I am a terrible mother. The ways I used to manipulate, use and abuse you. What kind of mother am I to use such trickery against her own son? And my daughter, my only daughter that I have grown to hate. Lavinia, I tried to love you, really I did. But you were not my own. You were... his. Those months with you growing in me, it was a filth infesting my insides. As a child, you tried to make me love you, but I always pushed you away. I made you what you are, so bitter, so cruel, so cynical. It’s not a wonder that you hate me like you do. (Tears begin to roll down her cheeks, and she is somewhat startled by the sudden burst of emotion.) I do not deserve to live. I can’t live with myself. The inside of me has become ugly with vengeance, hatred, and malice. Now the outside has matched the inner, and I’ve become hideous. (The tears come harder now. Her shoulders start to shake until her entire body trembles, and she desperately tries to control herself. She looks at herself in the mirror, fascinated by her teardrops. A nauseating feeling of remorse takes over her body.) I’m sorry. (She then notices the gun nearby. With a sick sense of fervor, she picks it up. Suddenly there is peace.)