To convey. That's the artist's job; to represent emotions, opinions, whatever. But where does the artist go to find these elements? That's where I lie. Helplessly devoid of conveyance. I have no ability anymore. It's lost, long gone, left of it's own accord. The art doesn't need me anymore. It gave up on me a long time ago, like a lover who's fallen out...and now I'm alone. How typical.
It leaves me with such a strong feeling of helplessness. My inspiration is lost, never to be found again. Perhaps it doesn't want to be found. Maybe it doesn't think I have anything important to say...and maybe it's right. A power so strong would know better than I when it's time to throw in the towel. It's just taken me time to come to grips with it, but no matter how hard I try I simply can't let go. I need art, but the feeling isn't mutual apparently. How pathetic. To love some esoteric force, some...vague epiphany waiting to be realized. Maybe it was my selfishness, my desire to fully grasp it, to have it all to myself, that drove it away. So now it's well deserved, but that's still not enough to ease my mind. I'm left feeling restless, and that's the way it has to be.
I guess I'm not meant to love something so beautiful, so incredibly soulful, like trying to kiss lips that remain ever-elusive. What a temptress. What a whore.
There's a flood coming. It comes to a crest, ready to break, but all it does is sit there. All it's potential, staring me dead in the eye, toying with my heart like a child tormenting a helpless pet. But does it feel any pity? Not a bit. Not one fucking bit.
I've talked about the fine line between logic and artistry. I spoke with such confidence, such blind arrogance, like I could ever possibly understand the true nature of the beast. Two dueling forces, constantly at war inside me, yet outside my grasp all the same.
How fucking typical.