I’m an explorer lost in the maps of my own making. Fear does that to you. It keeps you safe.
My fears have created a territory of comfort, a known universe, built on a repeated ambition, reoccurring failures and an echo of words and phrases to validate its construction. A safe zone invisible to the naked eye, where everything goes on repeat. Every time I rise, I also fall. And every time I fall, I reach for the same steps, the same tipping point, convincing myself it is part of a system.
I have allowed myself to be schooled into walking the same path over and over again. I know I’m going to get hurt, but at least I’m not going to be surprised. It’s the safest way to be rebellious. It’s the creative loop of the self-destructive genius. Creative freedom packed in a box-set of rules.
It's sacrilegious, wasting time given to me like this.
The truth is, I don’t believe in the myth of making your own fortune. I want it, but deep down I know it’s greed. It’s narcissistic. The things we surround ourselves with are there to boost our ego. Nothing else.
The search for approval, for applauds, for a pat on the back, they are all false, devilish calls. Screaming out that this is normal, that we all feel the same way and that all I need to know is that I’m safe. Everything I thought I longed for have become bricks in the wall around me. And what I have gathered is piled up to sanction the structure of my own map.
I have tried to be like you. To chase the same things you chase. To like the same things you like. To be happy like you, to smile like you, to talk like you.
It makes me nothing but safe. It makes me numb as a caged elephant.
My true prophet lies within. In the words of my inner voice. And real fortune lies with he who dares to listen to his instincts. And my instincts tells me that I’m not a part of this. I never have been and I never will.
And my voice tells me, that everything you try to sell me is wrong. That my fortune lives in the challenge of one short leap. In leaving. Everything I have gathered, everything I thought I wanted, everything I never needed.
To die. To be reborn. To save the art not the artist.
From time to time my mind goes to a place of nothingness. Sometimes it’s a great white desert with a faded horizon. Others, a vast empty parking lot with no end. The sun is usually high and bright, and I stand in the middle of the frame, leaving no shadow. Everything is silent, just the sound of a light breeze. There’s no path behind me and no signs ahead.
From there I can give you my thoughts, my love, my dreams and my soul. I can give you my vision, my heartache, my work and my all. I can undress. Rip my skin off.
And I can sing. For love, for life, for you.
From there I have nothing but I can give you everything.
It’s a blissful thought. Sparkling.
No map, no rules.
No history, no future.