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The Ethereal Ascent

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  The Ethereal Ascent The air in the room is violently still, creating a heavy pressure. She has long stopped looking at the clock, realising that time here is not a sequence but a weight. The waiting room has fractured; the mundane reality of plastic chairs and linoleum flooring splinters into a jagged, stained-glass fever dream. High-pitched frequencies of burning red and sickly blues vibrate as if hardened walls, echoing the frantic noise of a mind that has run out of distractions. Every sharp edge of colour feels like a spiritual siege, a sensory reminder that her momentum has been forcibly halted. There is no use in pacing. There is no use in resisting the authoritative hand of the "in-between." To survive this stall, she must stop fighting the current and become part of the stagnant water. She looks out, as if just awakened, and does the only thing left to recollect. She breathes. She waits. She waits for the shards to align once more. Be Creative and Innovative wit...

The art of futility

 

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



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.

Once you see this, ambition collapses.
Influence.
Relevance.
These are metaphysical debts art can no longer pay.
The work is finished the moment it exists.
Everything after that is clerical.

Futility isn’t failure.
It’s accuracy.
Art doesn’t fail to redeem us—
Redemption was never available.
Meaning isn’t hidden.
It’s absent.

Art doesn’t expose that absence. 
It decorates it—
Just enough for the mind to continue functioning.
This is why the most honest art offers no consolation.
The artist who still believes in transformation
is only delaying the reckoning.

Creation doesn’t save.
It 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.

Awareness recognising itself as surplus.
Stopping would require a greater fiction than continuing.
Silence doesn’t resolve anything.
It only accumulates pressure faster

So art persists.
Not as protest.
Not as hope.
Not as resistance.
As a containment strategy.
A way for the mind
to endure its own clarity.

If there is dignity here,
It is not the purpose.
It is in lucidity.
Knowing the gesture is terminal.
The form temporary.
The effect is negligible.
And proceeding anyway.

The art of futility -  it is biological

So art persists.
Not as a protest.
Not as hope.
Not as resistance.
As a containment strategy.
A way for the mind
to endure its own clarity.












John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett- is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via Blogger, YouTube, Flicker, Facebook, Instagram and Deviant Art

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Copyright

This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws. Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without the written permission of the sponsor is prohibited.


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