The Difficulty in Artistry

What is it about music that makes it good? I mean, generally, any sound that hits a melodic tone is a pleasure to the ear…

What separates the real feel from the fake? What separates a troubadour from a truth teller, a singer from a saint?

It seems mystical, the way creativity can be drenched with emotion, or just pushed through the ether of the universe. When a soul search snatches silence from the stream of conscious, lyrical content can pervade anyone with a pension for picking up a pen.

Anyone can do it, anyone can try…yet the real feel, the magic of losing part of yourself to the creation of a product, seems rare.

The truest form of human expression seems to peek itself out of the doldrums. It seems that to create magic, to build a product from the sanctum of your soul, you have to be unafraid, allowing yourself to be seen. Allowing a part of you to drift away like castles in the sand…

It’s not so much the fear that can prevent an artist from scalping themselves on paper, screen, or chord…

It’s the acceptance of the inevitable cost, the removal of a feeling you knew, a vulnerability that is only felt, while the whole world listens. An anguish of intent as the chord strokes anguish against your soul, scratching and tearing a part of your self for the world to see.

Allowing that to be given is the difficulty in artistry, the piece of the puzzle that is you, given away forever, as your mind rebuilds a statue of yourself.

Sharpened, toughened, and opened like a catacomb of ethereal illusion.

From your soul, to the betterment of the whole: the ear, the eye, and the tongue that catches a part of you to keep.

Only to be rebuilt again, as you search for more pieces…

Forever sharpening, forever evolving, and forever catching pieces of yourself as the landscape gets peppered with the content of your heart.

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