shreejastory
To the Church, an artist is a divine manifestation of God himself, through the power of healing, unlike any other (1 Corinthians 12:9-10).
To the famed, artists are the kites of imagination, dreamers...yet in reality, they serve as anchors tethered to the shifting currents of life's beauty and bitterness alike.
To the rich, we can all supposedly paint in air, our voices swirling like vibrant brushstrokes across the canvas of sound, our words flowing like ink onto the very parchment of existence, and our bodies moving with the grace of ethereal beings.
To all the greats, if artists are truly such healers, how did we become a cog in this giant machine?
While the rest of the world worshiped the towering edifice of the money-nexus, we found ourselves lingering in the shadowed depths of obscurity. When did we lose our way? When did our dreams become obscured by the pursuit of material gain? When did our paint dissipate in society, leaving us stranded on the shores of mediocrity?