my urge to write is almost primal. if i cant create, i will cease to exist. if i dont make art, me and my stillbirth creativity will die from the emotional blood loss. its maternal. its divine.
inside of me are millions of words, each with its own universes, eagerly waiting for their emancipations. art is within you, and the mother before you, and the mother before her. art is conceived through divine intervention and not carnal sins. most ideas die. some survive. few make it to full term. i am the madonna of my art.
to create art is to suffer. art is suffering. the epidural is to romanticize. happiness is one-dimensional; sadness is a galvanizing prism of misery. and art is bred through melancholy. before you even notice, you are with art. and to abort your art is to deny the immaculate conception. it is creative castration. you deny yourself from the divine pleasures of seeing your art flourish, to breathe life into something beyond yourself.
to create art is to salvage. art is salvation. men could never understand the blissful catharsis to create to something so beautiful after so much struggle and torture. to look at art as life, and life art. oh, to hold your babe in your arms for the first time. to press its soft head gently against your bare chest, and hush it for the first time ever. that must be beautiful.