This entry is inspired in part by Cynthia (sistercdr) of "Sorting the Pieces;" I'm sure you all have visited her journal, but if you haven't, the link is below.
William Shakespeare (or a shadowy personage from whom he may have borrowed) had it that
"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts . . ."
Looked at from another perspective, all the world's an odeum, and all the men and women merely concerts . . .
Or, all the world's a gallery, and all the men and women merely artworks . . .
And my favorite, all the world's a library, and all the men and women merely stories . . .
For that is what we are - whatever category of the arts you choose to name, we symbolize the components thereof, except that we are incomplete, our lives works in progress.
Five billion unfinished symphonies, partially painted canvases, chapters in a drawer, supernumeraries in the wings . . .
We are all artists, all 5 billion of us, playing our parts, composing our songs, painting our pictures, and writing the chapters of our lives . . .
It is not always easy to be an artist, to excel at what we attempt, but unless we retreat completely into a world where nothing can reach us and where we can touch nothing, where there is no emotion, no soul, we must go on, because the spirit so moves us.
Our efforts are not pointless, for somewhere there exists that stage, that odeum, gallery and library, where the works of our lives will be housed, displayed, and discussed . . . and, we may hope, admired.