Ars Gratia Artis

In the absence of sanity, art is born.

An artists greatest masterpiece is never initiated just because he or she was having a really great day. The most inspirational, life-changing, and historical works of art are derived from torture, hate, loss, lust, and sadness. Whether their guts be spewed on a canvass, or through an ink pen, or projected into a microphone… it’s spewed nonetheless. Art is messy. She doesn’t sit quietly in organized drawers, folded, waiting patiently. She is the pulsing gun whispering secrets to your forehead.

So here I am. In my darkest hour. Heart in my hands, head in my knees, arms offering. Art is killing me and I thank her all the same. Hard liquor lingers on my tongue, the stench of stale tobacco and menthol cigarettes slither through my hair, and memories of a night’s past dance between my ears. Laughing and singing and enjoying the torture burning my eyes. A walking, talking masochist...ready to strike. So here I am. In my darkest hour. Heart in my hands, head in my knees, arms offering. Art is killing me and I thank her all the same.

Art
is pain
is life.