Everyone draws, speaks, paints,
And you may be saying to yourself that you aren’t one of those people that can place lead to a page and create the next “Scream” or pastel the canvas or the sheet or the sheen of the marble that sits as waiting potential, potent to potentially, irrevocably alter the perception of someone standing near who would gaze upon that work and with a singular tear, say softly to themselves…
Now that is art.
You see, from a young age we are taught with our hands to create, doodling, drawing, tracing, painting, the kindergarten class is a petri dish of artistic passion. But there is something missing which makes that environment so conducive to learning…criticism cant penetrate, and you were free to create the very masterpiece and medium you’ve mastered with the piece of that proverbial peace of mind.
Until you reach a certain age and those lines you’ve drawn must then fall in line with all the others which have been grafted, a box of passion which cannot be expanded, or excelled in any medium until you become a medium to the spirits, screaming for your artistic desire back but the cry has been quelled by the lines you must now fall into…like graph paper, everyone is the same size, shape, and diameter, all another block that makes up the sheet of our lives, flat without purpose because they have coerced us into a regimented, restricted, constricted lifestyle. Snakes in the garden weren’t always so hostile, they led us astray with sweet talk and denial but now that its two-thousand and fourteen, those snakes are worthwhile because they tell us that they have walked the miles and until we fall into their shoes for a trial run, we cannot expand our knowledge.
So art is dead, or on a ventilator at least, gasping for the creativity to return.
You see, maybe you aren’t great with the physical, the original inception of artistic strength. Maybe instead you spin webs of lies, of tricks and ties to other forms of artistic size, the story of a world in which nobody ever held you down. You revert to a point in the past when this restriction wasn’t in existence and with that moment, the words they flow onto the page, a story for any step in one’s life; a break from the monotony of monogamous society, an introduction to the abstract.
Your words, they flow like a river, driving deeper and digging that grand canyon metaphor, stacking imagery a top the stream of language which permeates the being of believing to take stock in what you say…to create. Your words dance like so many tin soldiers, only your purpose is the positive, the release, the cathartic. Not the control. Not the filibustering ancient who hides behind the laughs of a society bred through greed and unoriginal behavior and which thrives on the remix, the quick fix, the self-induced lobotomy of reality tv, never understanding the need to be free…
And so you create.
And this creativity is not always positive. Some instead create the lies that hold us in, deprive us of the healthy mindful way in which one could process information. You spin your web, you lay your trail, we follow through like animals on the scent of the truth, only…it has been constructed, the truth is subjective. You create a tapestry of lies and deceit, but you create it so artfully that the artist fully feels that they believe in what you preach.
And herein lies the dilemma
Because everyone creates and everyone destroys and if creation can destroy than can destruction create? That answer is elusive but can also be conducive to abject thought and plausible deniability.
You see, the people in charge like to destroy, like to tell you that it’s impossible, that art is dead and that societal means mean to societally link you to another drone, another absent minded pawn in the chess game that is the world stage. Where unless you hang back and hide in the shadows, the consequence will be dire, and so you fail to inspire even one shred of social, creative dignity.
A great man once said that people should not give themselves to brutes, to machine men with machine hearts and he was right because in that aspect creativity dies. We’ve been blessed by something, whether faith or science, which inherently gives us that capability to create, to be introspective, introverted, existential beings with which the simplest idea can flourish into more than what it could have ever been before when we were living on the graph paper, a flat a-ffect to a flat existence, ready to sail over the edge.
Don’t let that creativity die because it is life. Everyone creates life and although you may feel alone or trapped or scared, your creativity is always there. It’s always there to be spread and shared and to give the creator a sense of completion and gift to the censure, the present solution to their problems because in the end, regardless of where you fall into the realm of passion with which I’ve professed so much love, inherently your spot is yours to claim, and if left alone it will eventually atrophy into nothing.
Everyone creates something.
What have you created? Will it stand the test of time, the weathering skies? Will it crumble and you will pick a cubicle life on the flat sheet that will become your marker, your number, your place?
You are not a number.
You are a person, part of that great collective known as “everyone” and in the end the saying is true…
Everyone creates something…what will you?