Death of the Artist 🪦

 Art Will Save The World.

    I believe it was Dostoevsky who said that, many, many years ago. Which goes to show that the world has been in a d decline for a long time now. History continues to repeat itself, over and over again. No matter what day or age it is, the evils of yesterday are ever-present tomorrow as well.

    I fear I may never be able to save the world. I fear that my ability to extend out and aid those who are in distress will diminish. I fear that I am nothing more than a failure in the arts. 

    Saving the world was all that I ever dreamt of. Being able to wake up, and work towards awakening the human spirit and consciousness. Unfortunately, a grim reality is slowly setting within. The fact that I am simply not strong enough. That I have overestimated my reach, and I must now face the consequences. The consequences that I will soon become nothing more than another cog in the machine. Another brick in the wall. I finally understand what it is Pink Floyd was talking about. I finally see the shadows which have been calling me to join them for ages.

    As I enter into this new, dark chapter, I find myself both relieved and defeated at the same time. Like welcoming death, after fighting through a terrible battle filled with bloodshed. Like finally allowing the waves to override your struggle and crush you within the depths of the ocean itself. I find myself ready to accept defeat, and to bow down to the evils which have been controlling man.

    I never thought the day would come. I believed I would battle until the very end of time itself. That I would be standing tall, in the face of all that was wrong in this world, and do whatever was necessary in order to defend it. To fight until my dying breath, to save those who will be coming after me. Yet here I stand, filled with regret. Filled with the notion that I have failed. That I will no longer be remembered as a brave soldier, but rather a coward who lays down his arms and accepts the enemy’s demands.

    I would say I wonder what it is I missed, along the journey, but the truth is I do not wish to know. I do not wish to spend any more time in my past, examining the world and everything I’ve done wrong within it. I no longer wish to try and understand the occult, which has been placed in power to defeat the human spirit. I simply find myself ready to bow out and accept that I am nothing more than a piece, which will never bring about true change. Never create a better world. Never build something which I can use to help defend my actions, 50 years from now. Instead, I will now serve an evil which has continued to wreck havoc upon this Earth for generations to come. I will become the very thing I hated.

    Art was meant to save the world, and for so long, it did. For so long, it gave hope to humanity that there was another way forward in all this mess. That there was a path one could take where they could truly nourish their soul and be apart of something greater, rather than a system which is completely dead inside. A system, where the individual is to sell their soul and become nothing more than a number. Nothing more than nothing. Nothing more than a sorry excuse for a human being. Art was meant to spark something deep within every single individual, showing them that there was more in the world than simply money. That there was a deeper meaning to this thing we call life.

    Today is a somber day to say the least. The rain outside, followed by the darkness of the clouds which block out the sun seem to reflect it perfectly. The defeat in my soul, echoed by nature itself. The darkness which now consumes me, consuming the greta out doors. Perhaps God is mocking me, showing me that even He has a sense of humour when human pain and suffering are closest to him. Or perhaps, He simply wishes for me to understand that He is in control, and I am but nothing more than an ant underneath the boot of which He wears.

    When I look back and talk to my children, I will be ashamed of myself. I will be saddened that I am nothing more than a failure. That I did not succeed in that which I wished to succeed within. That I simply allowed another L on my resume of life, leaving me with little to show and less to smile for. That I embraced the long, cold, death, which awaits me with every single that I sacrifice my soul in exchange for something completely made up instead. Tears attempt to roll down my eyes as I say this, however they do not come. They do not dare show their face in the very world in which I have now turned my back against. They stay hidden, silently suffering from within.

    I pray one day that the world awakens from its slumber. I pray that the sun will return, and continue to shine down upon us again. I pray, over and over, yet I receive no response instead. Simply put, I have become nothing more than a fool, who knows too much and has achieved too little. Another tragedy will nothing to show for it, say for a couple broken words and promises. The death of ones soul is a dark, dark day. One which we shall never look back and remember as something worth celebrating. One that we will simply remember as a tragic event.

Your worst sin is that you have betrayed yourself for nothing - Dostoevsky

        Atlas,

                    The End.