two good reasons to make Art
One is to know self. hear your own voice, scream into the void, stand tall in all your glory and walk into the storm, curse the gods above, bleed onto the pages you call home, bruised knuckles and all. we’re dream chasers with broken hearts and heavy shoulders, expression our only remedy, splashing into this world with fire on our tongue and our senses scorched by the sun, a circle peg in a square world. we lust for life, sensing the beauty all around us, celebrating mundane and striving to drink it all in before our short time is up. we dance in the rain for no other reason than to get wet, and something as simple as shimmer water is a direct invitation to not think twice and swim, no matter how cold, and when our day draws to an end we energize with the setting sun, splashes of magenta, violet and blues smear across our canvas and even then we’re still not done. the night is reserved for the stars, bonfires, and howling at the moon, full or not. we dreamers will always find a reason to celebrate, live to the fullest and banish the ordinary because it doesn’t exist, only in complacency does ordinary root, and by design from conception and origin, with a bit of luck, we are statistically miraculous.
Two is selfless. in the first we scream into the void, in the second we listen back... an echo chamber. we check our pulse beneath our battered and bruised skin, clear our tears, inspire, become inspired and breathe life into others. we depart from the void and transition into the shine. we leave loneliness behind and seek kinship within ourselves. this is where artistic expression comes into play, the final stage of mourning, letting go, and accepting the inevitable of the impermanence of everything, and through this process we no longer scream into the void but speak softly with love, move with kindness and compassion, for once heartache, grief and loss cross your door you’ll never know how important the artist is, the day wounds tear flesh from bone and vermillion pours by the buckets is the day you know, you seek solace in masters of words, scholars of joy, drunkards of lust and lunatics of love. degenerates who dedicate their lives to chasing the human condition, touched by the sun they have little choice in the matter, an obligation to burn white hot in their love for there’s no other reason for existence but to be reduced to ashes by and through white hot passion, volcanic, and through this process of forging is utterly self and selfless.
