The Art of Sin

Divinity and art seem to contend with one another, and I find this strange. The kindling of creative fires always appears to be an unseen spirit, or energy, which bursts forth from the soul. It’s never clear where this inspiration originates, and so I concluded the source to be transcendent, and I the conduit. For, as far and wide as I may search, I never seem to find where the tingling desire comes from; That desire which begs me to run a pen over a blank page, and decorate it with silent words, singing of their birth and humming with beauty. Yet, the strangest thing is the closer we get to divinity, the smaller we become; The deeper our spirituality, the tamer our desires. What good does this serenity do for the chaos of creation? Does inner peace not stifle the desperate movements of inspiration? Such a balance of heart chains the brutality of art to the cold floor, in the cell of a contented mind. To be divine is to be unmoving. God cannot be written, painted, spoken, or sung. What is all cannot be more, or less, than one. Though, what is beauty if not imperfection? What is man but an incomplete image? Our mortal eyes will never gaze upon the golden, gated grandeur of the heavens, we may only brush stroke our dreams of heaven upon this earthly canvas. After my death, surely, may I float freely among those clouds, and drift forever within the firmament. Yet, while I live, let me feel the weight of my body and mind. Let me feel pain and desire in this fragile heart. Let me be ignorant of my immortal soul, not intimate with its promise, lest I bid adieu, due to futility, to the furious ballads we throw, echoing into the abyss. By all means, climb towards heaven, reach as far as you can but, when you crash to the earth with your fragments of grace, form them into stained glass for us all. Find your forgiveness and redemption in the beauty and torment of creation. Whether freewill be our curse, or fate our master; Whether we have but one life, or need never die, may this mortal soul still move through time to find its own Truth. May we be the immediate cause, but never the ultimate end.

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