We are what we want not to be, existing only for a way out that we cannot see.
Squeezing our souls, hearts, and mind, towards an ulterior purpose which is yet to be assigned.
Attempting to describe a World in which we do not fit in, an attempt to relate to those who weren’t meant to be akin.
So for some, death hath been, and may be, the only escape; head in the oven, body adorned by water, mouth covered with tape.
Hath been a fate long known to one, that for us nothing is enough, whether it be a night of love or the rising of the morning Sun.
Tis strenuous work to give all within, and yet realise content cannot be found without or within.
The works that are produced to attempt comprehension, simply free the already liberated and leave the artist remaining in his detention.
A detention of self, inescapable after the point in time, where finding acceptance in the World is forbidden by the mind.
Drugs, alcohol, sex- it simply numbs the returning pain, only prolonging the suffering of the brain.
But what is the answer? To stop exercising what the mind produces? Hoping that by doing so, the works will start reducing?
No, for this is not possible for those truly creative; tis like a disease that needs releasing at the peril of the brain, for it is reactive.
We carry on knowing its existence or omission is paradoxically our life and death, a stab in one’s own heart at production and yet to not is to be bereft.
We are what we want not to be, for to be creative is forever know abnormality.
Ryan Lane 2013