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Going to the Art museum on Friday was a thought provoking and exciting journey. As I walked around and appreciated the unique pieces of art I let my mind wonder. I wondered about the people who painted it, the story behind it, and the meaning of it (to name a few). All I saw at the art museum was the end piece. I didn’t see the making, or the finding. I didn’t see the heart of the artist, or circumstances surrounding the piece. All I saw was the piece. The culmination of hundreds of different happenings led up to this piece of art that I would stare at for a couple seconds and forget as soon as I walked away. Some pieces, I could tell, had more to them than others. Certain pieces had a lot more going on, it was obviously not just mindless colors, but a story. Like literature, each piece or art is such a small part of what it actually means. As literature and art relate to the person, what we see and read would be comparable to the outer self. The final piece of art is only what is presented to us, what makes the art real is what that piece means. What we read from literature and poems and what we hear from songs is only a part of the story. The true meaning goes much deeper than the words, or the painting. The true meaning not even the artist or poet knows. Art, literature and people are all endless. We can spend the rest of our lives exploring them in an attempt to fully know them, but we will be fruitless. I believe God created us to be infinite, to live our lives never truly knowing anyone, not even ourselves.