At some point,
it stops being about making it big
Every artist starts with the same wet dream —
the stage, the standing ovation, the validation,
and maybe a few blowjobs from strangers
who call you “underrated genius”
right before forgetting your name
When you start, you’re barely an artist
You’re just unresolved trauma with a loud mouth and an itch to matter
You think art will fix you
Art doesn't fix
Art is a band-aid for gaping bullet holes
When you're bleeding out, it just becomes a part of the process
And the deeper you get into the grind,
the more you realize —
fame’s a lottery that has a handful winners every decade
too seldom, too random, to be considered a science
and yet just enough frequent to keep you hopeful of miracles
The ones who make it big,
sell out their very existences,
because big isn't big enough,
and it often comes at the cost
of everything you ever believed in
The rest —
die trying
Trying for someone, somewhere
to hear the goddamn sound
of their stitched-up soul
And once you've truly become the realisation of the idea of an artist you'd once lusted over
Art stops being a passport to fame
It becomes your only proof of existence
Even if nobody’s stamping it
Because truth be told, fame is not a destination,
it is at best, an addiction with a following, to drown your vices and voices in
And when the applause fades,
and the crowds move on because your voice becomes your habit and crowds don't like routine,
you’ll realize the applause was never for the art —
it was for the promise of something bigger
and art is either objective or subjective, sometimes both
but the one thing art never is, is comparative
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