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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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Celeste Warrior Woman

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Noble sins raised to the cause
Bend and break tradition
It was written it will be done
Hack and saw this new vision
Hack and saw a this new dream
No thought can be placed in front of us
Onward to history in splendour, grandeur and audacity

Within the mirth of failure and treachery
We must roust out all that conspire
Roust out and enforce our vengeance
To all who thawt our virtue
To those who must fear and embrace this for told memory
To all challenges, threats and of perilous deceit

Siege the defiant and deniers
Subjugate the populous  to our cause
Maintain the order of privilege
Cut all paths that divert from sacred discipline
Cut all opportunity and access to our sanctuary

They are those who speak with other tongues
They are those who display indecent behaviour
They are those who are misguided by intended lies
They are those who hate our way of life
Deny all oxygen that can inspire flames of dissent

This fight
Of this time
Of this memory






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