Art is delicate
yet it will tear you open
a silent night spent pondering
with music lapping at your ears in the distant background of a room
when that one wicked note appears...that frustrating, elating, releasing, infuriating, frantic passion!
You think to manifest something,
No! It takes a hold of you! That thing!
It throws you on the floor and you let it run!
Muttering, you grab your medium, you gaze at it, witnessing visions of those particular fantasies cascading around your brain and throwing themselves through your eyes! Words roar onto the page, taking their rightful place in this creative freedom. Perhaps there is colour, a photo, a leaf, some of yourself that has drip-fallen from the wounds in your brain! Giant cerebral colour crevices torn open to let thought, love and ideals flow out! They will close up and heal stronger than ever. However, you first must empty yourself into it all.
Time is up.
Slumped back against your life you can gaze upon this thing that has shown itself to you, perhaps you thank it for giving you a chance with such passion. Then you can return to what it is you do in the mean time. Waiting for that delicate thing, that is always there, but thrums and hums with your creative spirit in waiting, until it is delicate no more.
Someone asked me what I would describe "Art" as. I proceeded to spew this forth at them.
Now they refuse to talk to me more than casually as they have told others, "he's one of those confusing artsy types."