Surrealist gesture

Just the silhouette.

Grace of form, a body, a shadow thrown against light. Subtle yet violent movements that betray everything you thought you knew. A world hidden away inside of every gesture, a world continuously new and frightening. A world of illusions, composed of dust, where love and chaos form new words of fetish that few are eager ever to speak… let alone live.

Prose floating along on the streams of sunlight, beaming through the cracks perforating the wall. A place unchained from the contempt forced by the fidelity of unjust resolutions. A protest inside a skull, all marching, screaming and blood.

A revolution against accepted aesthetic form. A plague of ideals and emotions unsullied by avarice. Controlled creation still fully confused, pure and free. Naive to the dispositions of commerce, apathetic and uninterested as to their modus operandi. This grace can be tamed, broken, saddled and rode into the darkest woods of the sons of man. Opening the doors of useless protections along the way, baring the rooms and halls within as empty; facile as broken strings.

It was a parade, a farce, an imperial march in step with a funeral lamentation. One must ask; “is our worst lie simply to assume our fate is only to suffer?” We deserve to arrive at this question armed with a thousand different bibles, a million different chains (locked and anxious to perform) and one open mind. It bears repeating; just one mind, open, malleable… thirsty to force into the world the only true parameters of art: honesty, divorce, and revolt. The songs of slaves echoed through a barren and dead land, covered in the salt pouring from our wounds. The wounds of discovery, of our ancestors, of our crimes. If this is only for you (it isn’t), I’ll be candid: That salt is sweet, that salt is all life and all joy crushed together under the intense heat of pure desire, the fire of many open hearts begging to witness a sea of hands reaching absentmindedly towards a cracked and bleeding sky. Oblivion of intelligence, the death of freedom and alleviation. The merciless religion of ambivalence. Swallowing up whole lives, moment by moment, word by word… compromise by compromise.

Nonchalant suicides bred of boredom… slow pressure insanity.

We do indeed all carry the same fears, desires, obsessions, etc. We all just have different tricks to ignore, placate or destroy. Then that certainly leaves lucidity, alone on the pedestal upon which only it was created to sit. No compromise, no lies, no masks, no souls. Ignore the contrived grandiloquence of those disgusting charlatans; desperately parading their fear of death. Creating idols out of their need for explanation and definition. Upholding that arcane fraud nailed to their filthy cross of control. Let us run across the muddy backs of angels, forever dropped to their knees and begging forgiveness over something called “sin”. A hard shield and a sharp sword. A belief that there is something which is right, just and controlled. Some kind of point to all the pain. A desire to believe that right and wrong even exists. That there can be justification for the poverty of our actions and someone who can forgive them. Someone who has the answers to what they believe are the questions. Thinly veiled egotistical fantasies of eternal life. A ridiculously narcissistic delusion that I’ll live on… I’ll get to see all of my loved ones again. Mental masturbation on a fantastic scale.

It is just a show. Hollow slides throwing up a blindingly white square onto the wall. We walk into the light and what appears inside the wash of negative space, begging to be filled with something disguised as whatever one will choose to believe represents a simple truth, one which is pleasing and comfortable? Only the shapes we create. Only what we choose to let live, breathe and grow. Yourself, not another.

Not what you can claim, allege… imitate.

Only honesty.

Throw morality away as a fool’s errand, ethics are what matter. Ethics, the way you act, the why, the reason, the TRUTH. You never prostitute yourself… you never impudently plagiarize and pass yourself off as something you are not. You never steal something from a friend. These are the simple rules, the part you just do not understand. The reason you are not, and never will be, an artist.

So fare well in your bulimic mediocrity.

Blind, in the infant’s head of uncertainty; all fear and misconstrued ambitions.

Plainly: It’s not what you do… it’s how you do it.

Decisions then must be fatal… a blade of truth to slit the wrists of the globe.

Grace of form, a body, a shadow thrown against light.

Subtle yet violent truths.

Not real;

Just the silhouette.