There is an old idea that knowledge is not stored in books, but in paths.
Some cultures didn’t write history, they walked it.
They sang it.
They repeated it until the land itself remembered.
Songlines. Songpaths. Walking while remembering. Moving while listening.
Not metaphorical, but physical.
I don’t practice these traditions formally. I don’t claim them.
But I recognize the structure.
Going the same way again and again.
Seeing the same forms under different light.
Letting rhythm stabilize perception.
Monasteries knew this too. The cloister walk. The repetition of steps. Prayer wheels turning thought into movement. Circulation instead of accumulation.
What matters is not belief, but repetition with attention.
Today we carry songs everywhere. Phones, headphones, constant sound.
But the problem is not access.
The problem is bombardment.
When attention is permanently occupied, no inner world can form.
And when no inner world forms, people are told theirs has no value anyway. Value is measured only by usefulness. By productivity. By service to an abstract collective.
This is a betrayal of the individual.
Not because society is evil, but because systems need stability. States, markets, power structures feed on attention. They survive by redirecting desire outward, never inward. Consume, react, comment, repeat.
What gets lost is the personal song.
The quiet rhythm that belongs to one body, one life, one trajectory.
Art, for me, is a way of rebuilding that song.
Not loudly.
Not heroically.
But persistently.
I build paths. Temporary ones. Fragile ones. In rooms, in hostels, outdoors. With drawings, objects, traces. I stay with them. I add. I don’t reset. Accumulation matters.
From the outside, this can look strange.
Someone arranging materials. Someone drawing patterns in the ground. Someone returning to the same gestures.
But there is a difference between losing reality and inhabiting it.
Psychosis dissolves structure.
Practice builds it.
I’m not escaping into fantasy.
I’m constructing orientation.
Like architecture. Like navigation. Like placing beacons across time and space.
Small lighthouses.
This is not destruction. Even when there is force, even when there is intensity, it is always construction. Breathing shallowly, yes. Carefully. Holding load. Balancing forces.
If others see madness, that’s fine.
Recognition is not required.
What matters is that the path holds.
That repetition integrates experience.
That movement, sound, image, reading, and making form a continuous circuit.
A song you can walk.
A path you can remember.