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The art of futility

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  Creation doesn’t save. Art stabilises. That’s why art continues after belief has died. Not because it promises something— But because consciousness cannot stop itself. The will to create isn’t heroic. It’s involuntary. A reflex. The art of futility A spoken monologue I don’t make art because it matters. I make it because consciousness produces excess. And excess demands release. That’s the first lie we’re taught—that art points toward truth. Truth doesn’t need us. It existed before our gestures and will remain after our silence. Art isn’t revelation. It’s a regulation. An overdeveloped mind can’t remain idle. Thought accumulates. Pressure builds. Expression becomes a discharge—not a message. This isn’t noble. It’s biological. Paintings. Texts. Sounds. Images. All variations of the same maneuver. Not transcendence . Containment . Once you see this, ambition collapses. Influence. Legacy. Relevance. These are metaphysical debts art can no longer pay. The work is finished the moment...
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Godin Refractive Reflection

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Across the scrub and through the winter's cold.
Through the wind tunnels of our cities we go.
Foraging forward to the promises of a warm embrace.

Then when it appears safe to count.
The whispers from our night mind contorts order of event.
Of what was never to be considered or to be questioned.

What is termed as to be expected?
Is not present in refraction, glimmer and enticement.
Until the realization when all should be questioned and disorientated.

What turns our attention is not what we seem.
As we are desperately unhinged from the stories of heritage.
And so it continues this paradox of acceptance and distraction.

We do not want to be seen through distraction.
However, as the light changes and the whispers entice our attention.
The management of knowing seeps through our figures.

Go to sleep and pass through pulsating dreams.
Wake afresh with new realizations.
It is in unconsciousness we make sense.





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