the artist does one thing: he saves the world. and the artist is one person: its you.
but the world will not teach you about the artist. they will keep this secret from you, for they fear you. when he forms in the clouds, eyes aglow, his easel dripping thunderclouds, the world structures are in grave danger; beauty cracks government marble like a meteor from space.
i am only beginning to learn how to #art. art is something everyone can do. I believe also, it is something everyone WANTS to do! everyone wants to be artistic. what good news! because everyone is inherently artistic, right? society, science, and tradition do not teach this, but society, science, and tradition will NEVER know where the artist comes from; like a ninja muse from the neon-clouds, from nowhere, the artist comes. her enemies: society, science, tradition; her allies are the sunset, and the song.
the artist is the smasher of the modern world. tradition and culture can never be fully trusted, for they are institutions, they naturally deteriorate, and are very willing to lie. the schools will never teach of this corruption, for the education system is merely an organ of the state. your government, even as the tentacles and black blood of dead planets ooze from its mouth, will assure you everything is under control.
civilization is neither natural nor safe, for the consolidation of power is inevitable; concentrated power will, without fail, attract the greedy, the ambitious, the alien, the mutant, the heretic. thus, evil always surrounds the seats of power. and we have made #it already, the winter sword, the weapon that ends life; every moment brings us closer to being a mere nuclear memory, and there are those among us willing to do it, for gold, for honor, for spite.
this is why the artist comes. the artist is neo, he brings the shield of summer, the crownflowers, the tree of life. he tells the truth and he lives the truth. from his eyes and his veins, the technicolour supernova paint pours forth into the air as songs, dance, ancient myths, scriptures of mystery, tales of the superhero; from his hands pour the wisdom of the stars, the whisperings of future gods; he is the time traveler, he is the magician; he is the living truth, new, eternal, misunderstood, barefoot.
it is the lie of the system that life is easy, or easy to understand. existense is a puzzle, a maze, and a painful one. there are nefarious ways to turn pain into your own agent of control. for example, governments, medicine, and their propaganda: they use pain and the fear of death to take your rights, and sell you drugs, not unlike a street gang.
the artist must know the maze; the maze is his world and lover, and enemy; in his heart beats the minotaur, of infinite power and perfect clarity. with his horns, stamping his poem-hoofs, claws black with ink, he shows the way. he shows the way for others; he shows the way for himself.
when the artist is a girl, she is more beautiful; her paintbrush is smaller, and her hair longer, but she is cosmic like the milky way, empress of lightning, crackling, grinning, planet-walking. she knows all the depths of the rose-ocean, love, and all the thrones of skulls in the loud wildernesses of men. but she is gentle; when she paints, she uses only water, and her brush doesn’t brush the page.
whether boy or girl, you are an artist. you are an artist of the highest order! this age believes in talent, gifts, misfortune; ultimately, the message-propaganda is INESCAPABLE LIMITATIONS. that is a horrific lie. that is the bedtime story elite sorcerers read to their slave-pets every night. but it is just that: a story, a fake story. no government or sorcerer EVER wants people to know the power of their own heart, the sleeping dragon-artist within, scales covered in gold; for she may awaken one day, burst forth into the dead world, and immolate all in her #songfire.