Fresh sunlight streams through the deciduous trees, turning their verdant tops a cartoonish lime green.
You put one foot in front of the other confidently, making your way down a familiar path until you reach the river. The sand on the bank feels cool and grainy against your feet. You submerge yourself slowly, savoring the moment, but you’re distracted by movement on the opposite bank. You resurface quickly, but not fast enough to see what had been there. All that’s left of your visitor are four pairs of quotation mark indentations in the sand.
Animal tracks are not made with the intent to be preserved or remembered. They are merely brief reminders of what has come before. Art is very similar to animal tracks in that way: Not all art is remembered and cherished, but it serves a purpose as confirmation that you were here on Earth and experienced things. Confirmation of you as an individual with a unique vision. Confirmation that you lived.