Chapter Eight: Limitless.
I want to create a new everything, he said. And I’m not stating that as the beginning of a diatribe about classicism and the inequalities in our society and the no-one-gives-a-fuck about what I think the solution is. I want to create things then recreate them. Things that people can inhale through their minds and exhale through their dreams. I want to redefine shapes. Then I want to use them to create newer ones. Any form of artistic progression ever made has been pushed by every single person on the planet whether they realize it or not. We live in a world where aesthetics translate into emotions. A beautiful face, a stroke of paint, the architecture of a city, the color palettes in our homes. Everything. Every line, curve, empty space. Every single detail. It all affects how and what we feel. I’ve always believed that a triangle is the most honest of all shapes, it’s the only one that stands its ground. It’s the shape with the strongest presence, the most elegant, none of its edges point in the same direction, none of them are ever aesthetically the same. A triangle is the leader, it tells the rest which way to go, it stands at the top. It doesn’t follow the conversation, it creates it.
Our world is full of ceilings, rules, limits, guidelines, telling us how we need to do things. What the right way is. The purest form of genius is conceived in worlds without borders. The best way to fit the mold is to break it. I just want to feel the music scream louder when I draw outside the lines. I’m done with setting rules for myself to follow. I want to build the tallest building in the world just so i can scream from the top of it. I want to revolutionize everything from the tiniest pixel to the biggest canvas. Everything. A ten foot statue should be turned into twelve into fifteen-pushing-twenty. I want to keep pushing every little idea to the furthest impossible point. True innovation occurs when something preexistent is recreated differently. And that’s what I’m doing, I’m recreating the cool and making it surreal. I’m perfecting what we’re happy with to make us ecstatic. I’m converting comfort into the highest form of elation. I’m taking the amazing and making it extraordinary.
Zero Eight Fifteen.
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A fucking dream.
Chapter Seven: Pitch Black Canvas.
I’m terrified, he said as he poured himself another drink. Terrified to find the muse that’ll murder my inspiration. I know that sounds completely paradoxical, but my creativity is fueled by pain that can turn brick into ash. To the world, this may read like the first chapter of a cynical addict’s diatribe, but I promise it’s all part of finding the cheat sheet to happiness. They say that you can’t make anyone else happy unless you’re happy yourself but what if it’s the other way around? Call this a dark, fucked up fantasy but what if happiness comes after all the stabs, blows and wounds? What if genuine happiness comes from fulfilling it for someone else? Half my life has been a mind and body war of independence vs. dependance. I’ve been at the edge of the battlefield and back in a search for euphoria. But now I just want to utilize that struggle and translate it into complete elation, someone else’s elation.
I’m a creator in an art form that gives people the ability to express themselves, something that’ll give anyone the power to scream without having to breathe a single word. With every pitch black canvas, comes the ability to ignite anything and create something new. I’m just afraid to lose it all, the pain that is. The masochism is all in being afraid to heal. All I’m doing is using the fuck ups to correct the future, not expecting the future to correct my fuck ups. But now I just feel like I’m watching a cigarette slowly burn at my fingertips and can’t seem to let it go. I know none of this makes complete sense but I just want to know if it’s all part of the search. The search for you. Does this tunnel have anything at the other end of it or am I going to fall into emptiness, again? You’re going to have to walk through it, she said. Stand up and take yourself to the end. Every journey lies in a pool of fear, but your motivation to walk through is what will determine the strength of your backbone. Just remember not to run this time.
Just focus on the goal, straighten the arrows, tighten the ends, and make sure that they’re all pointing to one thing, and one thing only. Don’t get distracted. Drain out all of the noise from your life and focus on what you’re trying to tell the world. You’re on a mission, fighting a battle, filtering out all the useless shit and making all the mistakes so that you can tell the rights from the wrongs. Remember that you’re the author of this story, you’re the one writing the beginning and deciding how it ends. You’re onto something extraordinary and you don’t even know it yet. Just never forget to be yourself throughout every move, focus on you and what you truly are and not what you wish you were. Keep that heart by your side, keep it upside down, and keep it black.
Chapter Six: Feeling In The Gaps.
It’s confusing sometimes, he said as he poured himself half a drink. I’ve been caught in this weird limbo where everything is coming together at zero to sixty while I climb this cliff and yet still feel a huge gap to fill. I’m starting to feel distorted in a battle against all this noise. I mean, truly, I know what I need. I’ve always known, it’s just difficult to conceptualize. You know what I always wonder? Is it passion that fuels the pain or pain that fuels the passion? No really, think about it. Do our screams come from what we feel or do we scream because we’re feeling? I’ve just been sitting here, feeling everything in the world through my eyes and my biggest fear is to figure out the solution. The one question I know the response to yet never want to have answered. What if I take this leap and realize that the only thing that kept me going this whole time was the fear of happiness? The fear of the unknown. The idea of having something left untouched that could have the power to tear me to pieces, or even worse, make me feel victorious in a war against myself. In another life, I once heard that “the important part isn’t what you do, it’s how it makes you feel”. Fucking brilliant, I know. I said it. The irony is that I’ll take hypocrisy any day over actually listening to my own advice. It’s funny how that is. I mean, that’s what my art is all about. Teaching myself things that I don’t want to understand on my own. Seeing what my feelings look like. And trying to prove myself wrong every time. I’m living out of a glass half full, looking for the other half. But what if that emptiness is what keeps me afloat? What if fighting for air is the only thing that keeps me breathing? What if that’s the only muse in my creation? Emptiness only exists when you set a limit, she said. Without that, you’re just feeling in the gaps that you choose to fill.