“All forms of madness, bizarre habits, awkwardness in society, general clumsiness, are justified in the person who creates good art.”

― Roman Payne

I found myself at the edge of exhaustion when in the early hours before dawn, I was driven by the creative madness that didn’t let me sleep. At the artist’s hours, when everyone was asleep, I was there, putting words in order, notes on the staff, and mixing up the colors. There was a magical time in the night when art was created as no other time existed, watches were no longer useful, and everything shuddered to the miraculous vibe around. The moon sent silver light and created shadows, the stars blinked, the mist surrounded, and nature remained still, creating the perfect environment for producing art. But there was more, and the true madness did not start right after dusk, but much later, after everything grew in my heart, and filled it up to the point of implosion. It evaporated in the sunlight and condensed in the night because there was no magical factory to keep the darkness. The fever of creation was like hunting ghosts, feeling it, might even seeing it but never being able to touch them. Those hunting sensations drove me mad but were real because I believed in those callings and in that passion that woke me up at midnight and I started creating. How was that real, how was that possible, to leave the comfortable bed and the beloved one and stay up all night? Creativity was stronger than the lover? There was no way to put an end to those nights, and perfection was the only way to make them stop. However, in my hands, nothing was perfect, because I believed that I could do more, and more and even better than everything that was created. But what other things that haven’t been told could be missing from all the madness of creativity? It was registered already in all those longing poems, it was sung through those craving notes, and it was painted on all those lusting canvases. Why there was so much drive to things that were already said and played? There weren’t enough sorrow or unspoken words? There was not enough mourning sent out in the Universe? What made me follow my passion to exhaustion? Was it the creative madness or the destructive passion that took it all from me?

“She wanted something else, something different, something more. Passion and romance, perhaps, or maybe quiet conversations in candlelit rooms, or perhaps something as simple as not being second.”

― Nicholas Sparks

I was there, in the middle of the night, fully awaken looking for some answers. I wanted miracles that had never seen the light, I wanted to see the shadows transformed into dancing fairies. I wanted the night because even if nothing existed for real, at least under the candlelight, things felt simple in that decor. The conversations were real, without false masks, without boundaries and the words were spoken from the heart. Still, there were creatures that would prefer the light then hiding in the dark, and no one wanted to face their dark shadows coming down in the twilight and follow their true madness. I have seen what was shown to me, and what was presented on that beautiful stage that I called “Life”. However, I didn’t want the common anymore, I was looking for something else. Something different, something better, that was filled with passion and longing, even if was something that would last a second but felt real. I looked for someone that sold their soul to darkness, for their devotion, and in the nights of sorrow, to hold a conversation that brought the truth to the table. Conversation with the cards upright, with the fool as the leader, and the wheel of fortunes spun.

“I understood myself only after I destroyed myself. And only in the process of fixing myself, did I know who I really was.”

― Sade Andria Zabala

If everything would be that easy, everyone would be able to do it anytime. But there was a price to pay when coming back from such a failure. I didn’t realize how important was my life, and if I wasn’t grounded and rooted, no other big achievements could be made. I left my dreams to get dusty, I left others to destroy my life, and in the end, I was the only one responsible for my self-destruction. No one could hurt me without my permission, no one could enter my home without an invitation, and I couldn’t get disappointed without having high expectations. Yet, there was nothing lost when I could choose myself, and never counted the loss I had from others. What has been lost, were just moments that couldn’t fulfill my dreams, that couldn’t get higher than my anticipations. Still, that was not too much loss, and even from the bottom of the well, I was still able to recover if I could understand myself. That path was the only way to take me home, and every step I took, and every thought that followed led me to the process of fixing myself. It was not a miraculous way, it was not madness, it was not even destruction, but just a recovery that brought me to the starting point, once again. When I got a second or just another countless chance, I haven’t forgotten to be grateful for that opportunity, and I was aware that I was blessed. I could be blinded, I could be scared, I could try to hide behind the wounds, yet there was no time to waste after all the hard work. The best achievement I could get was finding myself and I could share my story and the path through creative rage, so the whole world could know, that I was back.

“You’ve got this life and while you’ve got it, you’d better kiss like you only have one moment, try to hold someone’s hand like you will never get another chance to, look into people’s eyes like they’re the last you’ll ever see, watch someone sleeping like there’s no time left, jump if you feel like jumping, run if you feel like running, play music in your head when there is none, and eat cake like it’s the only one left in the world!”

― C. JoyBell C.

I was getting there through the tunnel of turmoil, and everything was ending up in lust. It was a destructive one, and what was left to hold, cut through the flesh, when holding it up, too tightly. Yet, there was no need to hold it back, those nights and people that wanted to leave before dawn, were free to go. I wasn’t holding prisoners, no one that didn’t want to live from passion and craving was welcome to go unrestrained. We were not all prepared to jump out off the stiff cliff and feel the breeze that went through our curls before we felt the ocean warmth and got into deep waters. I was given another chance to live a life without ego, sharing and spreading pure joy, and unconditional love, that came from too much sorrow, and from the deepest chambers of my soul. I was left on Earth to embrace those feelings and to live like there was no other day left to experience what was given: a kiss, a phrase, a verse, a tune, or a canvas. Everything was made from a creative madness or a destructive attachment, but what was left behind, was something that teachers couldn’t teach, and students couldn’t learn. Good art was learned through devotion and through delirium, that one that didn’t let me sleep, that didn’t let me fail. Every night, until was dripping from my soul, the last drop of eros and everything that was felt or seen. There was no other way to get those feelings, but through art, and what inspires all the artists, was the love, the love of life. It was the love that never came out from the light of candles but from the haze of darkness with madness and desire.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *