The Curse of the Creative
It feels like there’s almost nothing left. It is true that a human being can be ignored into non-existence.
The things that made her more than flesh can be ghosted into oblivion. I can feel it happening, one little inch at a time. My torch is being burned up.
How many of you have passed by my work without a word? How many have scrolled past my open-heart surgery without giving a second glance?
I’ll never understand how I can mean so little. I’ve really tried. I’ve really given it my all.
I can still hear all those English teachers singing my praises, the praises meant for a future best-selling author.
Yet, my work, my abilities, would never go that far. They would make it to the social media maze where they would hit dead-ends endlessly.
No one cares. Just die in mediocrity and let it go.
These ideas are meant to be incinerated with your body, not read by millions.
I wonder about the other artists who have felt this very same agony. Undoubtedly, creative individuals throughout history have harbored emotional torments that the average human cannot even fathom. What causes one to place one’s own head in an oven, drown oneself in a river, cut off one’s own ear?
Being born in a time and place that cannot appreciate the exquisite reception of the divine found within such a tiny fragment of the whole.
These humans reveal the galactic fire with thoughts and interpretations of those thoughts.
How do any withstand the torment? They obviously find ways because art exists everywhere. They spew out the chewed up gum of infinity for inspection by the masses who just want a tiny fragment of the infinite in the mirror.
On display, a human specimen’s regurgitated feelings and intertanglings with tortuous ecstasy. Gaze upon the wonder of wonders, a soul on the verge of giving up, yet scraping by through expression alone.
Should we turn away in ignorance or shall we admire and validate its existence? Whatever we choose, shall determine the fate of one who never asked for a gift, but who must pay the price for one anyway.
The things that made her more than flesh can be ghosted into oblivion. I can feel it happening, one little inch at a time. My torch is being burned up.
How many of you have passed by my work without a word? How many have scrolled past my open-heart surgery without giving a second glance?
I’ll never understand how I can mean so little. I’ve really tried. I’ve really given it my all.
I can still hear all those English teachers singing my praises, the praises meant for a future best-selling author.
Yet, my work, my abilities, would never go that far. They would make it to the social media maze where they would hit dead-ends endlessly.
No one cares. Just die in mediocrity and let it go.
These ideas are meant to be incinerated with your body, not read by millions.
I wonder about the other artists who have felt this very same agony. Undoubtedly, creative individuals throughout history have harbored emotional torments that the average human cannot even fathom. What causes one to place one’s own head in an oven, drown oneself in a river, cut off one’s own ear?
Being born in a time and place that cannot appreciate the exquisite reception of the divine found within such a tiny fragment of the whole.
These humans reveal the galactic fire with thoughts and interpretations of those thoughts.
How do any withstand the torment? They obviously find ways because art exists everywhere. They spew out the chewed up gum of infinity for inspection by the masses who just want a tiny fragment of the infinite in the mirror.
On display, a human specimen’s regurgitated feelings and intertanglings with tortuous ecstasy. Gaze upon the wonder of wonders, a soul on the verge of giving up, yet scraping by through expression alone.
Should we turn away in ignorance or shall we admire and validate its existence? Whatever we choose, shall determine the fate of one who never asked for a gift, but who must pay the price for one anyway.
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