Free flowing. Ready to burst, a 40-week old fetus clenches at the bars imprisoning it. The moment the thesaurus is consulted for a needless change in subtlety, the art is lost. You can’t time manage art, art can’t be controlled. It must be one of the highest feeling, the acme of existence, instilled of god-ness.
I had the pleasure of partaking in an university sculpting class. My results was okay but my experience was to be envied. Subscribed to art, it commanded me to chisel, saw, scrape, sand its amorphous thoughts into reality. It commanded me in irregular hours, when my body was tired but my mind alert.
I had the pleasure of writing in my confined, dark themed, markdown editor. The ratio of my prose attempts to publishes is 5:1 because the moment I hesitate, the beauty begins to rot, which I recycle.
Art must be opinionated. No one loves a lonely man. But some love a opinionated, cigar smoking, sad man. Those men call themselves existentialists, I think they would relinquish that title if a real pretty and soulful girl fell in love with them.
Art must be cringe. Some will never believe in an art form, and that someone is not wrong. But you must believe in your art.