Art for art

 I must admit, I was fleetingly tempted to conceal the truth with layers of pretentious fabrications. However, it is not only against the inherent trademarks of a writer, but also physically impossible for me to illustrate a setting that is even remotely disparate with reality for secretly, my soul flutters with glee at the absurdity that peppers my life. After all, what is a writer if not mad? As Bukowski said, “I'm not like an ordinary world. I have my madness, I live in another dimension and I do not have time for things that have no soul.” 

And what is my madness? My madness is limitless, seamlessly enrapturing my senses wholly. Yet, it is ironically perfectly encapsulated within this quote. 

“Does such a thing as 'the fatal flaw,' that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside of literature? I used to think it didn't. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs.”

As I frantically pour my vehemence out by imprinting my soul onto a document, personifying and bringing to life a once lifeless and hauntingly empty screen illuminated by white glares, I am copiously more than just a writer in her own world, solely accompanied by the constant afflictions of the omnipresent past blurring into her mercurial present. I am not merely an emotional sixteen year old, trying to soothe the overwhelming claustrophobia enveloping her, caused by the rapid drowning of rationality at the hands of her clawing emotions. I’m not merely a cluster of raging emotions manifesting into never ending sentences fueled by an unstoppable tide of overpowering feelings, sensations too divergent to be chronicled. I am a constant flow of energy, desperately on a lifelong quest of morphing from the artist into art itself. 

As these words erupted from the burning fire rousing through my veins, I gazed at my blurry reflection adorned by the shimmers of the dim light gently grazing my dewy face. I nestled myself with comforting blankets, tied my locks of hair in a messy bun, carefully chose a playlist to play in the background as I worked and obsessively reordered random but deliberate objects, trying to create the perfect scene, the perfect backdrop for my art, the perfect atmosphere-hoping the beauty of my words would seep into me as well, contorting the poetic blocks that have intertwined to form my physical being, into art itself. 

Every fraction of time that ticks is incomprehensibly precious, and time’s transient nature acts as a catalyst for my madness, my madness that navigates my body and soul into continuous efforts to transform myself into something much more than a block of matter, into something as breathtaking as the flowers I gaze at, the musings that pinch my heart and the songs that make my soul float away- transcending into the heavenly arms of the midnight blue hues coating the cloudy whispers of the sky.