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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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Singapore Botanical

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It is the smell that makes life so compelling
The delicious smell of damp earth, fallen leaves and aged trees

Return to an old wood rain forest to feel it in

Sense the decomposing and surrendering of life
Get to know the secrets held by the detritivore community

Feed on the dead

The scent of organisms recycling
Making use of death for a continuation of life

And allow the decay within to regenerate


Picture yourself walking through a forest. 
The light is fading fast
You are racing to keep up with the light
Apart from your panic everything is perfect
What do you anticipate?






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