It was an ordinary name for a not so ordinary group of people. The name they called me became my secret. It was buried within the darkness that filled the cavity where my soul used to be. It was a secret that ate my insides and made me more beastly than human.
Artists were what the others called us, yet they didn’t understand what lay beyond the calm, cool exterior. We were Artists that ravaged everything we could possibly find, in desperation for something we could become. In turn, we produced freakish creations to forget reality. I became everything I created because there was beauty in that monster, with shattered souls escaping from our mouths.
In simplest terms, it was a ghostly, eccentric normality. As Artists, we didn’t get our inspiration often, even if we ourselves were the muses. Creatures were created from the depths of our sins, the darkest corners of our hearts and minds. We were so consumed with trying to make our broken, ugly selves beautiful, that we never noticed that over thinking was driving us further to the edge of insanity.
Our days were fake and busy, and the nights were dreadful and desolate. We were stuck weeping, despairing, laughing, shaking, dying.
The cages we were held in were made of wood. They were tall, beautiful trees that let us create our hideous Art. Our bare feet padded the dirt floor, our bare hands molded our Art. Despite their differences, nothing was more glorious than the pieces decorating the cages.
Free yet trapped.
Content yet miserable.
Normal yet dysfunctional.
Loving yet lonely.
We were Artists. True, crazy, unstable Artists.
Angels couldn’t save demons like us. Ironically, there was nothing more we wanted but to reach for the sky while our creations consumed us, became us, transformed us.
After all, the sky was our grave, the sun our headstones, the moon our protector, and the stars our flowers.
It was a blissful escape to nothingness.