The Dance of Birth

It was a dance of bearing… It has been ages since he gave birth to a work of Art. It felt like his soul has withered long ago. & as days passed It felt like he lost his own worth… All the riches of the world would not matter if you lost the worth in you.
He needed to be reminded of his identity, of his ability to write unceasingly…The way his soul dances while he writes the dearest of words to his heart. That climax of passion that resonates within the boundaries of his head. Caressing every boundary. Kissing every limit.. & whispering gently: “Thou art limitless. Thou art endless. Thou art divine.”
He needed to be rid of the demons inside his head. The myriad voices of auditory hallucinations that stormed his conscience, cluttered his judgment, and manipulated his spirit. Thousand voices all together as dreadful as dread itself can be. Noises of the beasts of his broken past, stressful present and swooning future. Beasts that feed upon the very fabrics of his own soul… biting slowly… sipping out of the wells of his own divinity… Till they dry out and then there would be nothing for his soul to live for. But the hope for an exit out of Life. Those voices that weaved death out of his life & weaved life out of his death.
He needed to be acknowledged as the man he is. A true seeker, of beauty, of value, of life & of Love. This is why he needed to be reminded of his home. For where his soul will always yearn, where his heart will always turn, & where his mind shall always seek solace. Into the firmament of his thoughts… The skies of his dreams and the ethereal heavens of his own soul. He needed to be reminded that beauty is something you seek into yourself to find in the world. For the seekers’ prize is his quest. & the seekers’ prize is himself.
He needed to be reminded that open eyes are not enough to see, attending ears are not enough to hear, and a beating heart is not enough to live. That the very noise that others hear should be his music. That the very images that people see are paintings. For a work of Art is nothing but nature contemplating itself. For a work of Art is nothing but God manifesting itself. Because after all, an artist is one of many that are destined to find harmony in the world, & a world with no harmony is a grave to his very existence.
He needed to be reminded that his empathy is not just a choice. Empathy is the reason he is. The reason all are. & the reason God is in the world. & that the cornerstone of every work of Art that he needed to find himself deeply within its confines. That he needs to breathe like it would do, to live like it would do. For if God is an Artist, he surely needed to have the perfect empathy. This is why God is. God is an empath.
He needed to be reminded that he is a warrior. & warriors never tire. Warriors never fall until the last breath. For failing is not falling; you only fall when you cease to rise. That he needed to fight for his soul a fight of bones and flesh and blood and gore. To give all what can be given and lose all what can be lost in exchange for his purpose. For only a purpose shall set him free. For only a purpose can give him eternity in a glance. For only a purpose can give him divinity in a chance.
& so he began to dance the dance of bearing… of his work of Art.


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