I feel like I have been historically vague in my most recent articles. This is an art form in its own way. The denial of vulnerability but the refusal to be unseen. Something about the frankness needed for a proper article has always disheartened me, so I usually opt to mince words in the hopes of being viewed as poetic or perhaps an intriguing genre of psychotic. 

I would like to set myself up to be more descriptive and cerebral whilst also attempting to convey a message that matters to me, but honestly, as I write, I find the impossibility of such a task more obvious. 

I am disillusioned with the word “art.” I have heard it too much. I have used it too much. It has entered the all too familiar category of words whose meaning has been killed by redundancy. My broad application of such a word has caused me to find vapidness within what I have chased for several years. 

What have I chased? Sometimes a question is what it takes to whisk me out of my brain. Unless I refuse to answer. But, sometimes the answer is too simple.

I am but one person in a long line of artists who have attempted to cast themselves onto paper, rock and minds. In my unending search for answers, I have found only one that has made sense: There are no answers. Such a realization is just as disappointing to me as it is to you.

An artist wants to cut out a piece of their mind and give it to anyone who is willing to take it. We want to be seen and in some very few instances, known. What seems to be a common fallacy of the artist, however, is equating themselves with the pain they endure. As if every internal scraping of gears and spark of conflict within our nauseatingly expansive brains must be logged and filed away for the enjoyment of an invisible audience. 

I could expound even further, but I refuse, for the sake of my point and the excision of needless words clouding up what it is I want to say. 

Right now, I am sitting in a once-dark lounge. The lights went out and the blackness surrounding me was entrancing. Even now as the lights have returned, I still live in that space. Sometimes an environment is so powerful to the mind, it will take quite a long time for you to leave. 

The music playing in my ear is an orchestral piece that provided me comfort in one of the worst periods of my life. A period that my reckless mind has attempted and succeeded at replicating from time to time since. But none of that matters, because in this holistic state that I am sinking into, I am finding every moment of pain unite into a flurry of beautiful meaninglessness. Beautiful meaning. Beautiful refusal to reject beauty because art is simply too much a necessity to our life force for us to discard it for the sake of rationality. 

Art is not what I place onto a page. It is what I see. It is what I feel. I can share what I see if I like, but I have nothing to prove. This article may resonate with you, or you may find it a confusing mess and simply glance over it. 

My pain is nothing I must share for the sake of being truthful. For the sake of being an artist. Vulnerability is beautiful. But it is also horrifically brave and utterly unrequired. Everything I love about art and pain lives within me. I will share the best or worst of it whenever I see fit.

What I am essentially doing is driving a stake into the heart of this genre of writing I have found myself encased in. I am sick and tired of writing about writing. My best work arrives when I admit I do not have the answers. There is no question anymore.

The lights are on, but I still live in the dark. I find that beautiful. I find it painful. This is my way of saying the word “art.”

Anthony Morris is an opinion writer. Contact them at [email protected].