“Let evolution weed them out” you say.
Evolution certainly does.
It weeds out the dreamers, the lovers, the bleeding hearts. You can’t spill the pain from your eyes and survive. But nobody told him to keep it inside. They loved the art, the poetry, the beauty, the glamor. That’s worth loving, isn’t it? I look on his facebook page. “I’ve loved you since highschool.” “I loved you like family.” So much love, yet no hope. Everyone loves a suffering artist. You grow to expect that outpour of art. The pain never stops. The art may light a fire in your soul. But it is not made of fire. This pain is an ocean. The depths are endless. Endless. The art is because we can’t fit it all inside. It may come in different forms. A lingering dampness in the air, a rainstorm, a tsunami, a typhoon. Blood, sweat and tears. You drink it in for dear life and you leave us there before you drown. After all, you need to survive. Build something that “lasts” because, of course, that’s what matters to you. You can count on us to be there, any day, any night, with another poem, another song, another expressive, sad-eyed selfie. That is what you love. What we feed. We nourish what you kill inside yourself. You don’t care where it comes from, but only that it is there. The minute we stop bleeding before you, we are lost in the abyss, condemned to compete against the undead survivors. Yet it is so much more fulfilling to express it in the form of beauty. Then at least you love us, truly, if only for an instant. Anyone will cry for a muse.
We don’t need money, mansions or fame. All we want is to be loved for who we really are… but nobody can even see who we really are. We pour it into art, music and poetry, and that is all you see. Yet, we cannot blame you. We did this to ourselves.
Art, music and poetry. It’s all I will ever be. It’s all he ever was and now, it is all that remains. If he were not embodying his pain… what would anyone remember? If he were not gorgeous, blond, body builder, surrounded in music and vibrant paintings, covered in beautiful tattoos of his own making.. would any of these women even care that he is dead? Nobody will ever know. He died young and everyone will remember the beauty. That is art. It’s all we sufferers are good for. Reminding the undead of the soul they have beaten to death in order to survive. Scraping up any corner of humanity to hold a mirror to the world and show them what they truly are. Beauty, pain and longing. Nothing and everything. Life and death.
You fight to survive and we fight to live. Thus, you will survive, and we… we will live. Enjoy the mirror while you can. Evolution will handle us.
~ For Dave Berlingeri. RIP ~
