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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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Godin Equilibrium

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I woke up this morning and I felt a pain in my brain.
It was like all had changed and all will continue to change.
Nothing was left as the same.
And in this remorse I was the only one who  knew.
I just can't  believe it,   no-one would believe  in what I had to say.
So I yelled hard and long about all the injustices that has occurred.
I stomped my feet hard to the ground.
I punched through  the air to sporn my stance of knowing .
I spat deceit at society.
But no one knew for me and no-one wanted the goodness within my heart.
I became increasing alone.

In this life I can grasp the future.
I see visions of what's it's to be.
Messages  decrypt and whisper their intent to me.
I cannot find my way to you.
The more I warn the more you ignore me.
The greater the detail the less you want to know.
I began to hate you.

Where can I cry with my love watching over me?
When can I celebrate  when everything I state eventually unravels into loneliness?
The ground is trembling.
I feel it in my feet.
It disturbs  my standing.
I have lost my equilibrium.
But I cannot  reach out for help.
I will not reach out for help.
I pity your own mistaken and intended faults.
Strike me down whilst it's what you want to do.
I want you to stike me down.
I want to feel our pain.



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