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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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Obsidian static the puppet master

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  Obsidian static, the puppet master. (Verse 1) The crevice opens like a silent, dusty lung Air thick with minerals and a thousand forgotten years I'm rappelling down the sheer black into a chasm's memory My boots crunch on shattered polymer No sound but the suit's respiration But the stillness is a stage The jagged walls, they lean in now (Refrain) The Paraknowing a cold spike of dread at the base of the skull It’s not a thought, it’s a wave Static buzz. Who's the puppet and who is the master? High-tensile wires disappear into the light The tightening the silent pull above the gully (Verse 2) The godly face, brittle stone work It emerges, eyes blank and unseeing But it broadcasts a sharp spike of loss and profound love My logic stutters, snagging on the input An effigy , a sentinel or just a mirror I turn and see the audience waiting Small, white figures, balanced stone totems They are all part of it (Verse 3) The strings pass through my wrist Not from me, but through...
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Nu Jazz Between Peaks and Valleys A Journey Within

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  Between Peaks and Valleys: A Journey Within Lyrics We march forward. We march forward. Each step stirs dust into the air—still, unmoving, heavy air. Our silhouettes stretch long, etched across twilight mountains. The sun—neither fully risen nor set—pauses, and hovers. A witness. A silent guardian. Beginnings and endings, both here and distant. Between peaks, between valleys, we walk. We move together, but alone. Each of us. Each step is ours, yet shared. No words, no destination. No destination is spoken aloud. We are suspended. Suspended in transit, where time unravels, where place dissolves, where movement lingers, without end. This space—this space between past and future— This is the place. This is the sacred space. Each step is an act of faith. Each step is a leap into the unknown. The mountain pulls at us—its shadow reaching, grasping, holding. But light pulls, too. Light on the horizon, a promise. A call we cannot ignore. The burden we carry is more than we thought. It is ...
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