random spout

I sit in solitaire and think on those who dream of doing harm to others. The conviction they must have and the hurt, as well. I see the news and read the stories and poison my mind and ears with the illness permeating in the world. It festers and it haunts and it begs the questions, “what have we become”. A species designed to be more logical and rational has completely fled from all recognizable signs that we are the species said to be dominant. Are we? Have we not become overwhelmed with greed and aesthetics, mistruths, violence, ignorance, and self-fulfilling prophecies that only leave us more blinded than enlightened? People like me create and yearn for more. Hope to create more beauty and joy and in our own way, yes, enlighten. I create because it breeds more creation, it gives my voice rise and fall and thrusts me into my own dark truths. I create out of avoidance and desire and the sheer need to give. Perhaps that is the very unraveling of me. I must give. I must give and do so willingly even at the risk of being perceived as weak or bitchy or too strong or too ... open. Something in me, call it tendency, makes routine all but impossible for me. My thirst for change and excitement will be my undoing. I fight it and I run towards anything that could act as an intoxicating distraction but inevitably, I run towards the impermanence of life. Maybe I’m seeing something far more reluctant and engrossing that channels my fears and thwarted views of life. But what if I am simply doing as I am programmed to do and giving nourishment to the emptiness that breeds creativity and life? I say breed, like its a fungus growing and affixing itself to my core; ugly and raw, filled with bacteria also known as societal obligation; moldy and undesirable and spreading its tentacles and spores deeper into me until ... I bend to its will and adapt to its infiltration. I am distraught and entangled and caught in the web I may have spun. A web that sticks to me like a sickly virus and infects me until I am so wounded with grief and stagnant, distorted, inability to flee that I find myself ... waiting on a train that soars by and opens its flaccid palm long enough for me to catch my ride. And as the train tears me away and forces me into submission, a softened, raspy voice comes over the loud speaker to announce another one has died. If the artist is to be - art - its mind and soul cannot be muffled. Begin the revolution.