The definition of art is you. Twisted mind like the great artists who put the hard metal in their mouth and pulled death. The ones who choked their liver to suffocation. The artist who died alone in an indifferent hotel, with an indifferent rope around his neck, and indifferent parents. The artist who died with dust, only to be respected afterwards. You are Van Gogh’s ear. Unlike these greats, your wrists aren’t made of razors. No.
Twisted mind with a smile placed across your cheeks. Twisted mind because the neurons scatter in different patterns, unlike the rest of us. Twisted mind gives you a viewpoint our eyes can’t see around. Twisted mind on a cloud of consciousness floating above us. Twisted mind cause your art has a high IQ, it’s a hammer in the face, an embrace around the heart. It is the blade that cuts through our skull, opening up our minds. Twisted because you don’t see that in your art sometimes. The self loathes. That is your tragedy. A Shakespeare play. You are a complete canvas, paint confidence on that.
You’re the bent wheel that still works. You spin differently and what a gift that is. In a society of clones, you stand out. An artist, whose greatest masterpiece is a child whose wheel also spins differently. A clone of you. A walking peace sign. A running question mark. A child who cannot be contained in boxes. A mother who would never tell her son “just be like them, work there, they pay a lot, get your degree in that, it’s a safer career move. ” No. “Do what makes you happy, son.”
So do what makes you happy. Extrude your past out. Invite it to dinner. Sit it down, treat it well, host it like the poor waiter surviving only on tips. Then in the back, away from the glare of your past, poison the food. Sit with it and smile into its eyes until the pains of your past die in a frenzy after the first few bites. Foaming around the lips of your past are “regrets, the what if’s, the guilt and the care of how people think you should live your life.” Farewell.
Blank slate now being chiseled in with new desires. With 3 fingers in your throat, gag and heave, till your passions spew out. Pick the corroded pieces from the floor. Hold your eyelids open like the excited astronomer during a meteor shower. Press the volcanic branding metal on your eyes like an enslaved cow branded into a bar code for our tongues. Brand your eyes with passion. That way every time you open them, you will only see what YOU want.