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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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Osaka Displaced

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Where to go when
When struggles and feelings are destructive to your comparative mind

When shifting displeasure from self-harm
To those who have the power to harm

Being denied by what you wanted
For all of those legitimate reasons that pre-exist


Osaka Standing

I see you in the distance
Some 7 lanes apart
Standing alone in the rain
At night sheltered by your umbrella
Alone and in public being by yourself
Not wanting to be noticed
That is how we live now






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