120524

The sorrow of a pure heart

A heart, vast and unguarded,
Swells with love for all who wander near.
Affection lingers, gentle and kind,
Yet devotion, steadfast, belongs to one alone.

A silken cord tightens at the throat,
Each breath a struggle, each thought a yearning.
The quiet of solitude beckons,
Yet greater still is the longing for understanding,
For the weight of the soul to be lifted by grace.

The camaraderie of friends, once cherished,
Now seeks a blessing—to drift apart in peace.
Within, a child stirs, forgotten but not lost,
Begging to be seen, to be fed, to be free.

120424

Catch-22: The Passion of Art
I’ve reached a point where belief flickers alive again: this time, creating from passion might truly work. Art, raw and personal like an entry in a journal, could finally regain the reverence it once held in the days of unguarded dreams.

But I’ve seen how the show goes. Symbols that once felt sacred get stripped down and fused with pop culture, reshaped for an audience eager to consume but slow to understand. That’s the work of performers—artists who perform to survive.

At its core, though, art is a language. It doesn’t aim to entertain; it exists to connect. It’s the soul speaking in its own tongue, one that few will ever learn. Something deep within longs to be heard, but its words are not of this world.

To create for the show isn’t just about selling out—it’s about losing something vital. It’s not the betrayal of pandering that wounds; it’s the hollowness that comes from creating without soul. What joy could there be in such a mechanical act? It would leave nothing behind but a faint echo of what was once alive.

120424

Tongue

Art speaks its own tongue,
Not to please but to connect—
Few will ever learn.