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| <<<>>> |
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Masoom |
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| Created by Decius at
| [+ favourites]
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The world has always been a place of coldness, of ignorance. Every generation succumbs to the perceived evils of their world, the evils they perceive has hypochrasy, lying politicians, and a multitude of persons that go along with the norm because it is too difficult to do otherwise.
In all the times that there has been memory, there have existed those of us that exist in the dark corners of the world. In these dark silent places we rebel. Not against those around us, but mostly against ourselves. We are writers, painters, musicians... creators. We have always created in solitude to rebel against the weaknesses of our own natures.
Our creations become alive to us. We stare at such things after they are created, and do not know how it came to be as it is. We give birth to children that preserve our rebellion. The more intricate, the more condensed, the more abstract... the more rebellion it holds, and the less others may recognize it, the more monumental it becomes to us.
They, each and every little creation, become sacraments to us. They speak to us in moments of darkness and lend us empathy. They become our friends, in our dark little corners.
Many of the friends we create will remain our friends. But sometimes, the friends we create become friends to others. Gifts that we ourselves created uknowingly, as if placing in reality the undeniable voice of God, sometimes become friends to others.
Sometimes, another in a dark little corner will stumble upon your children and recognize them immediately as their own. They will love your children, for your children will be friends to them... they will provide empathy, understanding, and anchors. The children you create will certify that even in dark corners of the world, there is a purpose to existance.
These creations... paintings, stories, poems, songs... they to you as they may to others... provide the means of believing that your odd existance, your hopes and desires, your visions that alienate you from the multitude of others... perhaps doesn't mean that you are a mistake, that you are wrong.
With the empathy brought upon by a song or a story or a painting... and the ensuing magnetism that draws those of us in dark corners together... leads us to moments of confidence in our solitude. It leads us to believe logic... that perhaps those that conform are indeed weak and unhappy... that those of us that choose righteousness over prostitution are vindicated from the judgements of others, from the burden of fitting into a slot that might not fit us perfectly.
The stories of desire, the songs of love, of passion... the paintings of pain and loss... the tears that are shed when humans experience the brief interludes of empathy... the emotions they experience and the passions they yearn for... They are, and have always been choreographed by those of us in dark corners.
The true concept of selfless love has never been grasped by the people... only by the few that existed silently in dark corners and told stories of true passion. True pain and betrayal has never been suffered by those that did not experience such a love.
And so...
All the emotion, all the passion, all the hope and empathy that every artistic story or song or painting has ever tried to capture since the beginning of time has always spawned from the abstract desire for normal people to be strong enough to exist in dark corners, as we do. But they are too weak, and so they will always watch, hear, and see the stories we tell, but never live the glorious experiences that originated them. |
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| Created by Decius at
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