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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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From Darwin to Barcelona

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  Between Peaks and Valleys: A Journey Within Story: We march forward, each step stirring dust into the still air, our silhouettes etched against the vast expanse of twilight mountains. The sun, neither fully risen nor set, hovers like a silent witness—a guardian of beginnings and endings. Here, between peaks and valleys, we move in unison, though each of our journeys is uniquely our own. No destination is spoken aloud; we are suspended in transit, navigating a realm where time unravels, and place dissolves. This is the sacred space between past and future, where each step is an act of faith—a leap into the unknown. The mountain's shadow reaches out as if to pull us back, yet the light on the horizon calls like a promise we cannot ignore. Our burden is more than physical; it is the weight of unanswered questions, deferred dreams, and the hope of arrival. Our courage, a beacon in the twilight, leads us forward. Together, we climb the ridges of possibility and descend into valleys of...
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