An Artist with a Broken Heart
I read somewhere that a writer with a broken heart must write until the heart stops to ache and the words are no longer necessary for it to heal. Whoever said that should agree with me when I say, a performer must act, an artist must draw, and a musician must sing, in order to glue the pieces back together. It is not the warmth of a human body or the smoke in the room; if anything, it is art which saves us.
There is something incredibly beautiful about broken artistry. Inside it are fragments of love and the longing for what once was mixed with hopelessness and hatred and disappointment. It is secretive and honest and it is personal and political. It is for someone and for some purpose, but that person is soon to be replaced and the purpose is to move on. But for a few minutes while we read, watch, listen, and do that once and twice more over, art invites us to a state of timelessness, when love was still indeed there without a thought.
And so I continue to write, the performer continues to act, the artist continues to draw, and the musician continues to sing. We try to make sense of what happened and we string together one-sided truths only to find ourselves standing in front of a familiar someone. We search for alternatives because the silhouette of our significant others is fading and it's terrifying. Being alone is fucking scary and the only way to perserve them is to put them down on paper.
So I'm waiting for that one piece that strikes me - for that one art that makes sense of it all. Because if anything, I want to be saved. Because if anything, I want to be let free.