This is what we do.

This is what we do. It can’t be sum up in words, it can’t be explained to the tax man. Money is a stranger to what we do, and so is science. We don’t save lives, we are not doctors nor firemen.

We write, paint, sing, roar, raise fists in the air, scream and fire our souls into the sky with the spark from the talent in our darkness. We knock on every door, peep through every key hole, push, lean on, search with no aim for an open door and someone who wants to listen.

Death is our ambition, our friend, our foe. Our life is a lit match and death is the clutches of the universe that’s clinging to it. Time is never on our side, the army of white collar men are opposite to us, and there’s only us – you and me – and our small coalition of desperate equals.

We’re alone in the field, the storm is gaining on. The troops are marching towards you and your sole weapon is your voice.

This is what we do. In the small remote chance that what we do, is loved, people listen. When what we do is misunderstood, our voice is neglected.

What we do is the only thing we know how to do – and we do it like no other, because life, failure, setback, grief, grit, gut, doubt, love has perfected what we do. What we do, is the reason we get up – and keep getting up. Day after day, year after year, lover after lover.

This is what we do. And if reaching our goal means death then so be it.