The Last Time I Committed Murder

Blood drips from my hand. I cannot stop here, however. The commitment was secure. I gorge deeper into the dark abyss, crimson lapping at my vision. Am I expecting something from this probe? No. I laugh. I laugh at the stupidity of people who seeks truth outside from the self. I delicately chop off another strand of flesh that irreverently bound two irrelevant ideas. Mad, I was, am. Artist, to whom the ideals sung their sonorous temptations, I am.

I create my fingers. I do so, before I create with my fingers. I am my presence, and I am the world. I am one time a mere existence, while being the shutter that clicks at 1/60th of a second, being the pen that skims over a tablet, the imagery that is created on wall frames. I am all those things, because I am nothing anymore.

Every child has a dream. Not every dream gets fulfilled. Not every dream dies. Some dreams, therefore, exist to be intangible. Those are artists’. Politicians are weighed on how well they can realize their dreams. Artists are extolled on their ability to dream the heavenly entities. True art does not exist in paint and light, not in blots of ink, but in the mind of the viewers and the readers. Artists induce, but do not, and cannot, manufacture.

At least, that is for the majority of them.

There exists, however unbelievable, a minority of ignorable amount, artists who need to live that dream, who must perfuse their senses with the dreams of theirs. It isn’t a simple want, it’s a commitment. So is conceived the recursive deception. I knew that my senses were insufficient to comprehend the splendor I aim for. I knew that this body is too fragile against the sheer magnitude of my inception. So began the deception. I toy with my identity, manipulating it so it may be a shell worthy of its content. Failure never happens. Everything is a win. Weakness there are none, everything is strength. I create the fingers that takes the stead of the physical errs. It’s a tentative procedure, he has to detach the intelligence from the brain, and wet his hands with the blood of his own. Blood, that becomes, never his.

And so I am. I have now become someone who would continuously get back up, who would never give up. Everything is a win. I earn fame for making everything into an opportunity, for defining the meaning of full potential. Nothing is weakness. Everything is strength. Creation comes from conception. Every tendril of relationship, line of poetry I beget, problem I solve, I give them new meaning. Meanings that now have merely existed and have been only found. Now I have people with whom I chat hours into the night, people in Israeli boarding school, Australian graphics company, US navy. Chats become Skypes, videos become internships. Miracles happen in my life.

Every person has dots. Not everyone is Steve Jobbs. Not everyone connect their dots backwards.

People ask me, where I get the energy, the inception. I get them because I never live. I’m dead. Murdered. I’m one murdered artist.

#essay #antoniostark