You might ask, why is genius mentally challenged? Van Gogh, Camille Claudel, Pythagoras, Paul Gauguin, Kurt Cobain & even Charles Bukowski: What breeds madness in the painter's world? Why does the writer speak to his shadow? The consummate artist has only one fate. It is madness.
The artist is born highly perceptive. He sees more than he should but soon learns that perception is only revered in the old. In the young, it will be termed effrontery. He recoils back into himself - into the safety of his head. He rejects the world, just as it has rejected him.
He conjures a dream so wild, he'll forever see nothing of the prosaic world. Women will love him, men will offer him friendship. It will be all for naught as his heart will be possessed by his vision. He'll ingest copious amounts of liquor & sex. These won't drown out the noise.
In the middle of the night, when the world is asleep, his vision will grip his shoulders: "Wake up, fool...there is no sleep for you." He'll rise up wearily - like a soldier in a protracted war. He'll write more. He'll paint more. Hoping for release, but it'll never be perfect.
The world celebrates the artist for what he produces. It knows not of the terror within his heart. The artist will become paranoid. He'll feel deceived at every compliment. Because, despite the praise, his vision eludes him. He becomes restless. He becomes agitated.
He recognizes the futility of his quest - that he might never get to the dream. That he will never get eternal rest. The serenity he sought would always be ephemeral. He will get angry. He will destroy his work: they will have lost meaning because they were never for the world.
He'll pray for death. He'll pray for sickness. In the absence of hope, pain gives him meaning. If death delays, he will not wait. He will wake up one morning, tie a rope around his neck, & silence the whirring noise for good. This is the curse of genius. This is the cost of art.
Yet, his curse was his greatest gift. His pain, the enduring magic. In his cells of torment, he'll conjure masterpieces. He will need little outside of him. His disheveled countenance will invite pity, passion & reverence - seldom hate. Still, he lives & dies in pariahdom.
The world will sigh & say, "if only he had sought help". Convention blinds them to the futility of medicine. The artist does not suffer illness, he suffers fate. His destiny was written at birth, & his vision is his sentence. Medicine can stall it, but won't avert his destiny.
• • •
Missing some Tweet in this thread? You can try to
force a refresh
