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Schneider Jamie


The Stages of Lamentful Art

  • Ambitio (Ambition)

 

I have long sought the perfect tale, the perfect picture, the perfect way to ooze my sorrow and dismay into a medium that may connect an unsuspecting victim to my harsh, desolate view on the world. A cold and dark place, which taints the lives of saddened souls to a peaceful paradise in the great beyond, a place far from this.

 

I believe there is no such way an artist can create an emotion without embracing it for themselves, they must understand it’s capability on the mind. In my restless journey for the perfect piece, I must expose myself to these emotions I try to recreate.

 

Heroism and villainy may only take us so far, for an artist to truly expose the soul they must delve into the darkest of human sensation, heightening oneself of all emotion, one must welcome sorrow with open arms accepting all the malice it may entail. In other words, one must become sorrow itself, only then will they be able to replicate it.

 

I don’t simply see the world in an average view, I see a monotony, a never-ending repetition of experiences simply disguising themselves as different days of a week. I upend reality, and experience it as others do not. I only see colour, in dire need of manipulation. The world lacks disorder, this is my epiphany.

 

  • Demissus (Dejection)

 

Solitude. Pure. Unending. Solitude. I speak to no-one and no-one speaks to me, for now I only speak in emotion, in flicks of a pen, and colours in a picture. Yet I still do not fear loneliness, for the fear of loneliness in itself only emboldens it’s wrathful denigrations. I live now, bereft of feeling yet seeping creativity, my very being, my blood, which flows with capillarity unto my canvas. With every breath I take, a thought is birthed anew, at first just a tincture, then an idea; whether it be a swipe of a brush, a stroke of a pen or a note of an instrument, some piece of myself is transferred, more, represented.

 

I’ve found myself wishing more, contenting less. I walk the desolate streets of the night, cowering in my coat that shields me, that obfuscates that of the world which I do not wish to understand, or had interact with me. I hide, for I wish to fear the unknown rather than face it. People may stare, may sneer, may insult but I care not, I only care for my emotion, it is my fuel, my will; thus I must continue to refine it, by any means necessary.

 

  • Chaos a Pace (Chaos from Peace)

 

I don’t understand it, the restlessness it brings my mind.

My epiphany is absent, and my views are blurred.

 

Have I dejected myself too far?

Was my sacrifice in vein?

 

I eagerly search for that tantalising hit of inspiration,

But I struggle to find it.

 

For I bleed,

The blood,

Of creativity,

No longer.

 

My capillarity lacks fluid, and my canvas lays dry.

My pigment once bright, and full of feeling,

Now dull, and generic.

 

Must I deject more?

Or have I reached my precipice?

 

 

No, I will wait.

I stick to my ways, but I will wait.

 

The viscosity of my creative blood,

Will flow again.

 

I must simply wait.

 

  • Blasphemia (Blasphemy)

 

Is this sin? Do I spread sorrow as it’s blind vassal? Have I been tricked by the cruel tendrils of it’s extending mass, merely contributing to it’s dominion.

 

Have I sinned?

 

Has sorrow, my old friend, my mentor, robbed me of my empyrean. Has sorrow only used me, for it’s own eutrophication of the world.

 

This is blasphemy?

 

My creativity?

 

Let my dullness shrive me. Let it hear my regret and let it guide my brush and pen. Let it bring an epoch of lament for my blasphemous misdeeds. And let the viscosity of my blood, thicken no longer.

 

  • Nihil (Nothingness)

 

Now I am nothing, a nullful being without purpose but to create, and in mine wake of nothingness I reap the hearts of bordened souls and show them the purpose of naught. I create now, not works of emotion, but works of warning, of dull and decay. I’ve lost my blood, it drips no more. I’ve no purpose no more. I do not wish to be dead nor do I want to live, I simply wish that I would cease to exist at all, without consequence of death or life; and to those who try to help, leave me be, mine abandonment is better mine alone. Don’t deject yourself as once did I. Leave your creativity, it is existential nature. Only stare into your ceiling forever, without idea. Creativity, is fear, but it is also power, don’t use it as did I. For if you do, you will fear until eternity breathes it’s last breath.


 




Submitted: 00:14 Sun, 24 March 2024 by : Schneider Jamie age : 15