My actions and consequences of them have long deteriorated; this artwork’s essence eroded over time. The strokes of the brush failed to heed my wishes, refusing to dance to the rhythm of my desires. As I witness this catastrophe, all I can manage is a resigned shake of the head. And with cyclical gratitude for the fading day mingles with disdain for the impending dawn.
My mind is a realm of vivid tales, and all it can do is conjure narratives that play out in boundless imagination. The words, once imprisoned within, now flow through my fingertips onto this canvas of thoughts. A canvas so pristine, held up for my own scrutiny. A euphoric perfection envisioned and pursued. This is the sum of my capabilities, the apex of my creative voyage.
Yet, a perplexing presence lingers, a specter of your existence haunting the edges of my thoughts. Hopelessly allowing my destructive thoughts to become my existence. Why do I subject myself to this self-inflicted torment? Amidst a sea of ignorance, I find myself adrift. I, who know nothing, strive to bridge the gap between my feet and the clouds. Everyone seeks, craves, yearns. But what offerings have I, a lone voyager, to present? Empty hands, devoid of treasures, bereft of meaning. So-yeah, can you ease my worries with your tongue? A fruitless endeavor, yet so sweet in its potential.
My gifts remain elusive when intended for oneself. Solitude becomes the sole companion, a dialogue shared with the abyss. A confidant both caring and coldly indifferent, mirroring the response of waves endlessly caressing the shore. Similar to the static moon when the revering brush paints its visage. My mouth opened wide. I claw at my hair, fingers raking into the strands—talons digging into prey. Savagingly tearing my scalp, a desperate attempt to unravel the maze within my skull. Each pull: a release from a neverending pool of pent-up violence. A visceral symphony of frustration and desperation merging into a frenzied crescendo—A gifted silence from the rest of the world.
All is transient, as fleeting as the chillness of a cold drink against my skin. Perspectives shift, and moral compasses malfunction, all depending on the day’s heat on my skin. Everything’s fragile like paper straws, while convictions stand resolute as unwavering mountains.
This artwork: disgusting—long forsaken by its God.
And its God can’t erase it.