Renunciation

I've grown stupid and obsessed chasing this mythic thing called art. It doesn't exist! There is no art! There is no genuine. There is no valid. There only is. The rest can be accounted for by taste. The time has come to stop taking "non-art" as an affront to my existence. Nothing I do is art. Nothing I enjoy is art. What then am I chasing? Happiness? Everyone I despise has already found that in the things that I hate. Meaning? When there clearly is none? I'd given up on meaning before the candles were out on my eleventh birthday. There is nothing, just alternate periods of fucking and getting fucked for no good reason in particular. Where is it genius? I haven't done anything because of "it." Sat for years in my room and on the couch paralyzed because it might be out there somewhere and I hadn't found it. It has made me hate everything real because I have become obsessed with this thing. Why have you forsaken me? I grew up believing in you. Believing you were possible; within reach. Turns out you're just a bedtime story for dreamers. I wish I had never heard of you. You've ruined my life, stolen my joy, stifled my creativity, smashed my images; you paralyze me with what you purportedly do. I renounce you art. Nothing is art. Everything is nothing. Experience, now there's a god worth praying to.