Torrents of creativity sweat through me, And with the rapacity of cities I dare to opine To the heavens And to all those who confront my assertion. Thus, that a pursuit more lofty Than that of the artist is not to be found. Neither in oneself nor the matter that surrounds. For to make one’s stance In the wailing void Demarking the known, but not grasped, From the unknown, but most visceral, Is indeed a mirror — A demonstration of our likeness to Him Who inspires with lightning bolts of revelation The slice of a master-painter or the choice cut of a bard.
By design we, who occupy the medium, Live in constant states of semi consciousness On the border between sanity and lucidity Chasing fires for the burnt offerings of our attachments And the emancipation of our better-selves; Ascertaining horrors and delights most penetrating Alongside the lusts that course through these gnawing bones. Of all the vocations and avocations Is not the quintessence of sentience to be found in the arts? Is not that the lodestar to our infinite horizons?