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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 Luminous Transcendence

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Overwhelm our logic
From personalized layers of interpretation
Feared, worshiped, and misunderstood

From folklore to fairy-tales my story circles
Threatening, protecting and wilding
This uncivilized self
This authentic nature
This warning
This I don't know

My predatory nature 
My sweat sweat talk
Something is not quite right
I am the death of me

Challenge me to confront
Better ruined than dead
In this dream of crazy sounds

I fiercely seek shelter
from ill wind
from shackles
from shame

Distant callings
Come back into the light
from devastation to heartbreak






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