Unfortunately, my art becomes more honest when I'm intoxicated.
A bit more real.
A bit more free.
Mainly because the only one holding back my creativity is me.
I think too analytically for uninterrupted inspiration to dig in its roots and blossom.
There's always too much noise for statements of pure expression to take the spotlight.
I see and hear and think everything and can filter none of it out if I'm within my right mind;
Existing on a plane of stable consciousness.
Besides, rationality means nothing to intrusive thoughts.
So how else can I be expected to thrive if every part of me is existing all at once?
What else can I do to release the jagged pieces of half-formed poetry from the restraints of my own awareness?
How can I draw or paint or sew or sculpt or create if the only vision I can ever devise is a self-portrait of my ruin?
My art is fading.
I suppose I am, too.
(2023)
