Dancing on the shattered glass of the peripheral

So I had a discussion this weekend about why some people might choose to see art and politics as seperate spheres and this has been bugging me. What does that mean for someone who considers themselves a political poet? How does that coincide with people who maintain this view that all language is political therefore all poetry is political and what art isn't political in some way?

Sometimes, the logic of people's arguments feels more like glass slowly shattering. You can't move for the fact that you're weary of being cut.
So you stay still but even this is tiring. Lack of movement. Lack of thought.
And things get pushed to the periphery because everyone has causitis and everyone's causes have to vye for the myopic attention of everyone else's causes.

A fractal existence if you please.

A woman just walked by me carrying the most beautiful baby as if he were a burden. How can you read that just from looking at someone? Well, she held in him on her hip as if he were some sort of appendage, like one hell of a heavy coat or box or something. I think we rarely realize how we appear to others. I'm sure I seem quite scattered to people. Sometimes quite too serious.
Sometimes the air and the heaviness of your thoughts can feel so heavy.
When do we become burdens to ourselves and to one another? When do we move from out of whatever paling virture lies in being human to an existence that feels at times so very empty?

peace!