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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 mome...
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Photo Java Cloud

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Here comes the transformation
And the waves of all hype

Realize the dangerous assumptions
Don't assume that it must be done
Don't pretend that it's all about your crazy

Celebrate all implications
Impede haste and urgency
The nebulous demands
The fuzzy strategies
Stand strong and let it wash over

It is about your solutions
Your appropriateness
Your making sense
Your offerings to the demi-gods of change

Mission-critical
Synonymous in doubt
Expectations and confusion
Your unique attributes and characteristics
The fools who rise to divine rank





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