It’s funny how relief can come upon you out of nowhere.
You hurt for so long it clings to your heart like a shadow. It’s familiar, there, darkening your soul with its phantom weight.
We live with it, bearing it, until one day it leaves us.
A sort of relief washes over us, like we’ve finally dropped the cross we didn’t know we still carried. Our crucifix cast aside, we blink and look back upon our foolishness with clarity for the first time in too long.
We’re free. Their power over us is gone.
Until the next one comes along, at least…
Art is weird. The best art comes from the worst emotions. Maybe the best emotions too, sometimes, but usually it’s the really fucked up shit that transmutes inside the artists’ fucked up melting pot of a soul, becoming fuel for the muse. Happy people are too busy frolicking to write some real shit.
So I apologize for how fucking gay this shit is.
It’s just how I feel.
I don’t see these blogs as art, really. But I suppose they are, in the loose, catch-all definition of art that pisses off every Art 101 student. “Everything is art, here, look at this toilet that a guy scribbled his name on”.
I think the real definition of art should be something that makes the artist feel better for creating it. Art is something that you shit out of your fucking soul. Art is the darkness inside you, vomited up onto the page. Or maybe it’s the distilled essence of fucking sunshine that happy artists channel in their work. However the fuck that works.