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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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Godin Defence: Why can't everything just stay the same?

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Life promised so much but little favour came my way. And over this vista of nothingness I claimed what is mine. I waited for all of the promises and yet none did come. Others more fortunate gained splendor, but splendor was not me. And I gained self respect on other's misfortune. But your misfortune is not of my concern. Count your blessings and rot in your tragedy. Yes it will end in tears should you trespass my den. I do not travel,  my miracle is here. I remained close to my heritage. This colonial might. This is God's country, he gave it to me. I will deny you entry. You are contagion, you are far less than me. There are trees in my backyard, insects and lizards. Rodents scamper at my feet and bats by my ears. My dog is obedient. In silence we sit. Impatient and anxious , I do not want change. In dark moments I tend to my spite. With bottle in hand I seek like-minded. A good  man I have been. I have done no wrong. My house is clean. My ga...
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