Status: completed.
Bad Art
1/1
You are the mistake. You are the product of an artist gone wrong, the art that could not be saved. Your colors are simultaneously too bright and too dull. You look exactly the way your creator intended, but fail to convey the intended point. You convey the wrong emotions. You create tension. You tear the peace that surrounds you to pieces. You are a mistake.
You heard it before, "In art, there is never a mistake." However, you prove them wrong. Because you are art, and you are a mistake. The mistake, the unforgiving mistake. Broken, irreparable, torn at the seams. You were created for a reason, but you failed.
"You'll never be happy."
You do not need to be told. You know.
"If you continue to act this way you'll never go anywhere in your life."
How many times have you heard this?
"How do you have friends? Do you treat them this way?"
You have friends, but they are not really friends. They have told you they hate you too. They have told you that you are selfish too. You know it is the truth. Because you are the bad art. You know it, and everyone around you knows it.
How horrible, to be hated by the very thing that created you. How terrible an existence. You have never experienced unconditional love. And you understand, because who could love bad art? Who could appreciate the thing that destroys its own intended meaning? But the truth of the matter does nothing to ease the pain of being bad art.
Knowing the truth does nothing to ease the pain of living in a world you were dragged into only to be hated because of that very existence. The truth, if anything, makes it worse. How bliss ignorance is indeed. How much easier it would be to walk on through life, naively believing in your own wondrous nature. But you are the bad art, and you know it. There is no happiness for bad art.
So you sit and you think. You think of how to ease the pain, for yourself, for your creator, for your viewers. You think of how to fix your torn edges, to fix the mistake that contributed to your own nature as bad art. But you are unfixable. They lied to you - art cannot always be fixed.
You come to this realization and you know what you have to do. You go and you rip the torn edges completely. You tear apart the broken seams and bleed out the colors that did not match. You whisper your sorrow to your creator and your viewers for enduring your mistaken existence, though you know they are not listening, and you destroy yourself.
Because you are a mistake. And you know that bad art deserves to be destroyed.
You heard it before, "In art, there is never a mistake." However, you prove them wrong. Because you are art, and you are a mistake. The mistake, the unforgiving mistake. Broken, irreparable, torn at the seams. You were created for a reason, but you failed.
"You'll never be happy."
You do not need to be told. You know.
"If you continue to act this way you'll never go anywhere in your life."
How many times have you heard this?
"How do you have friends? Do you treat them this way?"
You have friends, but they are not really friends. They have told you they hate you too. They have told you that you are selfish too. You know it is the truth. Because you are the bad art. You know it, and everyone around you knows it.
How horrible, to be hated by the very thing that created you. How terrible an existence. You have never experienced unconditional love. And you understand, because who could love bad art? Who could appreciate the thing that destroys its own intended meaning? But the truth of the matter does nothing to ease the pain of being bad art.
Knowing the truth does nothing to ease the pain of living in a world you were dragged into only to be hated because of that very existence. The truth, if anything, makes it worse. How bliss ignorance is indeed. How much easier it would be to walk on through life, naively believing in your own wondrous nature. But you are the bad art, and you know it. There is no happiness for bad art.
So you sit and you think. You think of how to ease the pain, for yourself, for your creator, for your viewers. You think of how to fix your torn edges, to fix the mistake that contributed to your own nature as bad art. But you are unfixable. They lied to you - art cannot always be fixed.
You come to this realization and you know what you have to do. You go and you rip the torn edges completely. You tear apart the broken seams and bleed out the colors that did not match. You whisper your sorrow to your creator and your viewers for enduring your mistaken existence, though you know they are not listening, and you destroy yourself.
Because you are a mistake. And you know that bad art deserves to be destroyed.