Messiah of Ashes
Creativity is dying. A slow suffocation beneath the grind, the endless hustle, the tick of the clock that drills into bone. No one makes anymore. They file. They climb. They rot.
The world commands, GET RICH. GET SCHOOLED. GET BROKEN. A system that despises you, that counts your hours and prays for your silence. That wants you not even as a cog. But as the oil, the slick black stain burned to smoke so the cogs can gnash and grind.
They want you thoughtless. Stripped of imagination. A husk walking into work. Forgetting the colors of your own blood.
But I believe in the stubborn act of making. To write is to resist. To paint is to survive. To draw is to spit against the furnace. If you fling your words like stones into the dark, if you bare your strange visions to the world, you might become, not their savior. Not their saint. But some modern day messiah. A prophet stitched from paper. A voice screaming in the factory of smoke.
I think if you dared to put your words out, to scrawl your truths in open air, you could become the messiah they never wanted. Fragile and furious, a torch in the black oil.
A reminder that creation still bleeds.