The way in, the way out

The struggle of truth and everything else

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Create, it says, softly

a whisper that hides in the subtleness of the space that exists within me

a scary thought it is

to create

I have to die every-time, I die

to write

to create a form

to take a pencil and create a line

a shape

to fill colour

to mold

to pick up the tool

to cut or sew

it's a scary thought

this business of creativity

to get to that, in what place, in what form do I got to be?

the conditions that needs to be

do they exist or is it a thing of mind

to demand it all to be p[erfect

for me to create

the perfection it seeks

in letter, words and sentences

it thinks them over

degrading them as not worthy

not enough

not good

stoping me from creating

the thing I need to live

to survive

it won't let me create

there's something inside of me

that stops me in me tracks

distracts me

this or that before you do that

the matters more important

the things of the practical

art, art isn't important

you need money

so focus on that

what about all the other problems in life

how can you sit and write and create art?

there are more important matters at hand

anything to leave creating art

art

what is that

I am not an artist, I am just me

and that is a need

to create

to see myself

to see what I see and see what I didn't see

it reveals life to me

me, it takes me inside my being

into what I am feeling

it brings me relief

it lets me breathe

I can exhale and inhale life into me

but it has no use practically

it doesn't give me any means

to live a life I want, it doesn't help me

so leave it

again and again

in search of something else that will support

but without it I start to die, wither away

I have no life flowing through me

nothing pulsing through me

in the search of finding something else

I end up losing what I had

myself

So I am a pendulum, coming into art and turning away

in the search of something else

and returning back feeling empty and hallowed

from the lack of whatever it is that keeps me alive

living dead

I come back to seek life again

from within me, onto the pages

and tears fall

bringing me back to myself

and this has happened many times

too many times to count

and yet it keeps on happening

I keep on abandoning art

in the name of "something else"

like forgetting god

and losing myself

coming back and becoming whole

why does it keep on happening

the leaving of art, the forgetting of god

what convinces me to step away

step away from myself

seeking something from the world

living not from my heart

where god lives and art forms

I keep on abandoning truth

turning away, chasing something else

trying to replace what cannot be replaced

I empty myself

I lose touch with what gives me life

something new, something exciting

something logical, something urgent

something prime

some idea that needs all my attention, all my time

I leave all of me and go after that

Up until I am tired, exhausted and deprived

It keeps on happening

the practice of art is hard

staying in devotion

in faith

in love

is a hard path to walk

there are many things that emerge to entice

in the cape of a hero

an answered prayer, a solution to all of life's problems

a wolf in sheep's skin

the shapeshifting ego

taking form of anything in need

playing into insecurities

the weak spots

and that's when I leave

in innocence

walking away

not realising what is left behind

until it's done it's harm

it turns good into bad

beauty into ugly

it can take the holy, to take you to the unholy

it twists truths

the ego

it's a trickster

it does and will use anything against the self

to keep it trapped

in the old stories, the wounds, the false beliefs

in limitations, it lives

in smallness, it thrives

in lies, it takes over the self

the self, "I"

it is not one thing

It can be taken over by thoughts forms and energies

that identify as the self

it drives you insane, until lifeless and a slave

until deprived and drained

until there's nothing left of me in me

until I am an empty shell

constantly questioning who I am and

how I forget

until there's nothing left

until I am living dead

art bring me life

brings me back to life

and that is a threat

It's tiring to be taken away

to fall prey to that voice in my head

again and again, time after time

like it's influence doesn't reduce

the games and manipulation

the enticement take new form

I can never see it coming

It's tiring to what seems like losing to myself

defeated and discouraged, it would have me be

given up, hopeless and lost

but as I am on the edge

ready, willing, given up to jump in the valley of hopelessness from the cliff

right into death, in that fall

in that death, I end up surrendering

and in that surrendering I find myself

the god and the art

and by the time I land, I am saved

saved by grace

melted and one with my true self

the cycle, the circle

the way in, the way out.