Atypical Interrelations

Artists are still unavoidably separated by commas, by distinctions. Though those who generalize them would believe they are familiar of the human psyche, they will still find themselves perplexed on how the diverse works. The artistic is still a haven of thoughts in clockwork, segregated in levels from the basic to the most extreme, or the familiar to the most confusing.

I still cannot relate how much this works, yet I find the skilled different to the challenged, the technical to the defiant, and the tranquil to the unruly. The expressions of the thought have gained their extremities on the corruption of their minds. Those who remain quiet will have their hands scorched by their own madness and deprivations. Those who are driven by their logic would rather be ensnared by their own rules of survival. And what of these things, when you believe you have achieved artistry to a level of mastery when only you are only a puppet of your own profession, when you only a specimen to a perpetual cycle that runs in the media. I am meek; I am a broken thought and an array of faults. But I pity you, you call yourself skilled.

But then what runs through these veins, you who question the identity of the human intellect, you who believe in distinction, you who walk in a particular scene and perceive the hurl in space and the falter of the trees and heed the language of the gods, you who speak and heed the clog in the typical thoughts, you who do not long but grasp.

You weep, but you weep no longer for you foresee more than those who weep around you. You writhe; you blend deep in your own creations like blood in a swarm of colors. Those who perceive do not appreciate you yet you perplex those who wish to be your audience. I burn, yet I will wish for nothing but the wounds you bear.

We are immoral. We are misunderstood. We are grasped and bound by solitude because it speaks our language. We weave thoughts and question each other’s convictions because we believe these would make us wiser. We pierce and cut ourselves because we believe this is the way the hot blood rushes through our veins.

Now I understand why I smile, though I am buried six feet from the ground…