Can’t Hold My Tongue.
You always seems to make your appearance after a long break of silence. Revisiting ghosts of ambitions past. Where tutors, lecturers and sorcerers spun spells to cement my ideas in titanium concrete to make sure I’d never find my feat.
Wrapped on the sidelines for colouring outside the lines, contradicting their tongues by saying “Art shouldn’t be too political”, when that very statement in itself is political. Living like an atheist studying among a pedagogy of prophets, painting scriptures for the masses around zombies posing as artists, forced to visualise the carving of this passion into a business, but the intentions remain pious and pure as a baby birthed in a manger, hospital, favela or mud-hut.
Ever tasted the exasperation of being disheartened? Then you’ll know what continually being told you can’t follow your heart is like…
"A rebel in your twenties a conservative in your thirties"… I pray never. Fuck it. If walking a natural path comes at a price, I guess I’m paying it.
Can’t lie, sometimes my mind feels fatigue embracing these challenges like an alcoholic embracing the vessel of stimulant which is set on reviving their blissful half-lived-dreams, spilling out in a world of nightmares as bright as day.
Apart from the few who’ve woken up… whose making any note of this anyway…?