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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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Celeste Imaginary Time

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When imaginary time becomes part of linear time
Enlightening normal time 
Transcendental experience
As it is sensed
As it matters and as it becomes real
As real as in real time
The gateway of everything as in that of realising self

The thing that is in front of you
The thing that looks back at you
The thing that you are not looking at though the looking glass
The part that helps to explain the void within
Compensating for fault
Trying to maintain watch
In the moment
In one breath knowing why this is as it is
Why you are not as you seem

In splendor, the thought appears
A slither of knowing 
The now I understand meaning
That is without evidence of support
That is not taught to us
The inner world of dreaming things are just done
In clear vision and in the action of doing what is right





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