the truth is, I wrote to save myself. but maybe some of it, will help save you too.
There is a madness that sits on the edge of my soul, teasing fingers to wake and bleed onto the page. I write what I’m moved to write. I know no other way to release the burn of creation.
If I’m lucky, I manage a few breaths of truth and the madness is silenced for a spell. But the reality for me, and others like me, is it never stops. There is no peace for us. I doubt even death will bring it.
We write, we create, and we burn until there's nothing left to give.
Come if you dare. Walk the edge with us and we’ll show you the lick of flame as it whips through in a ceaseless dance of revolution.
I think the mystery of art lies in this, that artists’ relationship is essentially with their work — not with power, not with profit, not with themselves, not even with their audience.