If consistency makes an artist,
then I shall never be one.

If it is pain,
then I once was one.

If it is love,
then why am I not still one?

Is true happiness not enough to fill an artist?

Is there more inspiration to be found in the dark- when there is nothing to see and everything to feel?

Has any artist ever been truly happy?

Must one suffer for their art?
More so, must art be a burden?
Then, was Christ, himself, an artist?

(My God, the burden he had to bear.)

Was Nietzsche right- that, poets exploit their experiences?

Why do we deprive ourselves of contentment, of sleep, of peace of mind?
Why do we **** our own bodies, poison our livers, starve our own souls in the pursuit of a muse?

We are, all of us, restless,
half-empty,
half-witted,
half-hearted,
fools,
that have fallen in love with pretty words.

Idolators, we are.

Sometimes, I wonder, if we're afraid that silence can ****.
Or that, if we're not screaming at the top of our lungs, we're not alive.

Idle pens are handicaps.
Idle minds- cancer.

We're all dying not to become utilitarians.
Ugly.
Artless.
lifeless?

We'll die just to hold onto the shadow of our own hopes and dreams.

If it is commitment that makes an artist,
then I shall never be one.

If it is wreck-lessness,
then I once was one.

If it is thoughtful articulation,
then why am I not still one?

I now know that,
I am not an artist.

I will not break my own heart.

I will not cut my own throat just to amplify my voice.