You are all so fucking smug.
We all are.
We sit here in our sheltered environment and talk so creatively
and feel so proud to be making a contribution.
What do you know about pain, or suffering or inspiration?
About beauty or ecstasy?
Does anyone really want to hear about your day?
Fuck your plebeian existence and your petty thoughts.
I have my own.
They are small and dirty and they weigh me down
because they cloud perfection, that masterful opus.
Give me your passion!
The flame that consumes you, will feed me.
I will only hear what you must say;
that which, if left unsaid, would burst your lungs and bleed you dry.
I am only satisfied by those creations that can't NOT be created.
The first primitive that blew red ochre and left behind a print -
left a bit of soul for us to absorb, centuries later.
What will you leave behind?
Mozart died while desperately composing,
Van Gogh exposed his pain and torment for all to see.
O'Keefe bore her sex to us, Khalo her face, unmasked.
Shakespeare's words echo for eternity.
What can you offer me, the world?
How will you make even the smallest dent on the surface?
Don't give me excuses.
Give me your soul, your passion, your art.
- K.M. 2006
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