Of Prometheus

The deepest hours of night pale in comparison to the abyssal depths of the artistic mind–a place where things unsafe and unmeant to be lurk waiting to be given life, shades of the horrors of Man that fortunately find little more than glimpses of life as a sparks extinguished as rapidly as they ignite. And we, the keepers of the arts, are the wardens of a great many mysteries. But for the tortured artistic mind, that soul in anguish and torn apart by the vices and vicissitudes of life and love, the monsters are real, and we become their servants. We are not misunderstood, we are not mad; we are simply not bound by the strictures of a world that does not want us or our creations, and cannot fathom the depths of our being nor decipher the ink that stains our souls. We are victims of our own making to the monsters we have freed, those abominations that those who are considered “normal” fear out of ignorance and misunderstanding. But they, our children, are our masters, and we, the makers of the unmade, their willing and condemned servants. We are the damned, confined to the world we create, limited only in our expression, consumed by the fires that we kindle. Yet it is truly only there, in the depths of the loneliness and despair thrust upon us by the rest of you that we, the forsaken wretches of love, find ourselves in what we create. And while we never ask for understanding, we dare you to peer into those depths and converse with we who burn the world. And in weighing your own limitation and finite existence, you will know us to be gods.