Art and artists are not always bright colors. Hidden behind necessary posturing, there is often an inescapable midnight for the creative mind. In dreams, nightmares. In triumph, failure. In praise, inadequacy. These people make art because it is a release for indescribable passion; something no one can articulate or comfort. There is a tendency to shrug off and dismiss these people as sensitive, though they are strong enough to display their baring, or the parts of it that translate.
Listen, observe. The artist will teach you about the texture of the intangible, the bond between love and hate, the scent of sunrise, the comfort of the unknown, the boundlessness of home, the weight of a breath, the gravity of sound, the strength in suffering, the spark in a thought, the everything in nothing. These things do not fit well into words, and neither do the people or their pursuits; they squeeze themselves between the lines, in the negative space, around the offbeat – there, pointing at the forgotten wretchedness and beauty of existence.
This is in acknowledgement and praise of close friends and complete strangers who live this way, who use their art, whatever that may be, as a way to sift meaning from their lives. It is also for those who feel the chaos of their mind is too lonesome a burden, dwelling on the prospect of permanent escape, and for those who have already given in. Know that rarely is a person truly alone, even when what they feel, or what they create, is undefinable. I hope you keep sifting and, even if only in brief moments of clarity, can witness the gold that has been building in the pan of your efforts.