For me to be an artist, I must suffer to a certain degree or else my art suffers. It’s the dilemma I face constantly but of which I have only recently become aware of. I have been caught up in two parallel yet contradicting realities.
There’s a twisted, gloomy joy to be felt in this misery I feel almost constantly. Sometimes it’s almost unbearable but occasionally those moments lead to pure ecstasy and elevate me to a God like status, if only to myself. That is the sacrifice that I choose to make. A sacrifice that must be nurtured but guarded as well. For a chaotic mind often leads to destruction. But destruction is always accompanied by creation. Law of nature.
However, art is more than just creation. Art is the language of languages. Art is a warm, bright sun when there is only dark clouds. Art is the glimmering hope of a man locked away in a cold, grey dungeon. Art is also beyond all description and especially those of a rambling man trying to justify to himself, that he is needed; that he has a purpose.
I am convinced that a sane, peaceful society does not need art. Lucky for me that humanity is at war with itself. The real battle is between those that acknowledge this war and those that don’t. Thus the battlefield is laid out. There are no enemies. There are no heroes. We are all just strangers walking by on the street. Victims. Casualties. Strategists. Soldiers. Our thoughts, memories and dreams are the real weapons; the real threats. Double edged swords. To get us through the thick jungle. And to cut our own throats and stab our hearts of iron when we have nowhere else to go.
In a world such us ours, art – like love – will forever be a necessity.