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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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Napkinart Mall Leap of Faith

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Don't pretend that you don't know
When you are everything
When you cannot stop
As beautiful as you may be

Hiding in your room
In fear of your salvation
Knowing that any fall could do it
Who will you replace?

Where are they hiding?
In this sacred grotto
Waiting to be found
But too shy to let it be known

And so I leap
In my ownness
In readiness of assault
And waiting for the fall to end





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