I may be this thing, 

you call human

I am composed of flesh

but my thoughts are deceiving:

On the note of artistic duty, and what constitutes true range and influence, the aspiring and budding person who has this fire must move to a locale that does not—at first glance—make sense with the person’s chosen medium. 

For writers, a landscape of illiterate yokels. 

For painters, a region with little pigments available. 

For filmmakers, somewhere the infrastructure is less than adequate for production. 

These terms ensure the artist will need to overcome the adversity with creativity. Finding the wealth in something in the lack of something else. 

Providing these artists are given the bare minimum to achieve a sentence, a brush stroke or a photograph, the rest of the idea can flourish in the simplicity of necessity. 

This shall all be taken as a temporary residency program, which allows for the artists to respect the abundance they normally have in large metropolitan areas. 

In fact, not only do these residencies need to exist, those graduates of the program who do thrive should then move to the small towns, the antithesis of the epicenters, in order to surround their outpouring of truth with validity unseen in every-other-day life. 

Move to the small towns, artists. Show them your work and truth as you never thought you could before. The big city needs to spread with gentle and kind reflections. 

Bring the big shiny mirror and clean it.