I've done so many movies that when I see them I don't really

Hear now, O children of the future, the words of Dennis Quaid, who once declared: "I've done so many movies that when I see them I don't really watch them." In this simple confession lies a truth about labor, familiarity, and the way the artist grows weary of his own creations. For the one who works constantly, who pours himself again and again into the fire of creation, may one day find that the product of his toil no longer stirs him as it does others.

In this saying, Quaid reveals the distance between the maker and the beholder. The audience watches with fresh eyes, marveling at the finished story, forgetting the struggles behind the curtain. But the actor sees not only the tale—he sees the long hours of rehearsal, the repeated takes, the weight of costumes, the directions shouted, and the flaws he alone remembers. Where the audience sees magic, he sees process. Thus, he cannot watch as they do, for his own labor has dulled the illusion.

This truth was known even in the days of old. Consider Michelangelo, who, when asked to gaze upon the Sistine Chapel after years of toil, spoke not of beauty, but of agony. He remembered his neck bent backward, his paint-stained skin, the torment of endless corrections. Where others saw the heavens painted on the ceiling, Michelangelo saw his suffering, his craft, his exhaustion. Like Quaid, he could not simply "watch" the work—he had lived it, and thus, it could never again be innocent to him.

So too, O children, think of the soldier who fights a great battle. When the historians sing of victory, the soldier remembers not the triumph, but the mud, the fear, the cries of his companions. In the same way, the artist cannot watch his art as a stranger; he remembers the burden of creation. Quaid’s words remind us that success and productivity can also bring a kind of weariness, a loss of freshness, where joy is replaced by memory of labor.

Yet there is another meaning within his words: the sheer abundance of work. He had done so much that no single piece could capture him anymore. This too is a lesson—that if one creates constantly, one must learn to release the work to the world, to let it belong to others. For the creator, the work may no longer shine, but for the audience, it remains radiant. Thus, the creator’s gift is not for himself, but for others who can see it without the weight of memory.

The lesson is clear: when you labor, do not expect your creation to enchant you forever. Understand that art belongs to others once it leaves your hands. Your role is to give it life; their role is to give it meaning. Do not lament if your own eyes cannot delight in it, for it was never meant only for you. It is the people who will treasure it, who will see what you cannot, because they did not suffer in its making.

And so, O children of the future, take this wisdom with you: labor with all your heart, but do not cling to the fruit of your work expecting eternal wonder. Create, release, and move forward. Let your work belong to the world, even when you cannot see its glory. For in this way, you will continue to create without bitterness, and your legacy will not be diminished by your own weariness, but magnified by the joy it brings to others.