How can WE, as artistes reflect on all what's within, aspire to be successful (by success I mean a lifestyle of contentment, not necessarily luxury)and at the same time remain creative, ground breaking and most importantly relevant? I've thought about this all the time, and I read a very inspiring (would come across as utter nonsense to some) interview with Devin Townsend (producer, frontman, genius, demi-god...) who basically talks about music being fun and an escape in principal before becoming a commodity for the masses. So many questions were raised... Some answers were woven in metaphors and pseudo-cynicisms that even his own peers might find tough to dissect. But there was an elemant of truth that always shimmers when Mr.Townsend speaks his heart/mind/soul. He has got fed up with the 'package and process' formula that swallows bands and their integrity in spade-fulls... And in more ways than one I can relate to everything the Man's said.

I am a musician. I am an artiste. I want to create new things. I need to create new things. If I have no creative outlet I would literally cease to exist. My reality is also My greatest fantasy. My fears guide me, my confidence controls me, my lust provides satisfactory therapy to let my inner demons have some fun. If I don't have fun, than I am quite evidently doing something that I am merely supposed to... Or have to... Which although very few mortals admit - You don't tend to give it your all.

I love performing in front of people. Thousands sometimes... A couple of hundred at other times. I still bleed every ounce of passion and evoke emotive regeneration I could muster... But have a blast at the same time. Some nights are great... Some nights are good... We haven't had a bad night in quite sometime. But I don't like feeling like some fucking animal in a cage. I'll throw your peanuts back in your face, I fucking swear upon Juno's Cunt! |-|

See... All of us blog, 'cos our shadows can speak for us... The secret doors can be left open and we feel that a network of similar folk around the world can relate to/with what we are jutting down, at times in a hurry... At times with a more thoughtful, slower momentum. For the world out there builds its momentum and functions based on categorization. The machine keeps chugga-chugging like a mean freight fuckmobile, but where's the fuel from? Who feeds it?

We all do in a way. We are all a part of this grand fiasco... This parastite disco of sorts. Tango with me, the world's watching... Don't lose your footing, don't ever fall. Today I've looked deep into the fractures and fissures of my life and I see wounds that overflow with memory, some with remorse... Some that I've told myself will leave scars that will one day define me.

My lovely muse paid me a kind visit. I wrote something that I felt needed to come out. An artist is only as good as his paint they say... That's true... But paint won't mean shit if the artist can't hold a paint brush in the first place. See... That's the point. that's the thing.

I am going through a lot of pain right now... And I can't explain a good percentage of it. So I write, or create music or keep myself busy... One man's hell, is another man's heaven after all...

As all of you can see... I am in one of my sinister, philosophical wormholes...

So I wrote this piece... This lyric... This poem... Whatever it is that the sane world dubs it these days. I don't know what it's about this time. I hope you guys would. Shed some ideas my way. Here she is, in all her raw, introspective grandeur.

Dark Outside, Darker Inside (One solitary freak’s public masquerade)

There isn’t another place I’d rather be
It’s getting dark outside
It’s even darker inside
Everywhere I look I see another tearless face
Build and break
Create and deface
It’s every fool to sink his own ship
In seas that dictate our destinies and destinations

There is a secret place where peace does exist
Broken temples, crumbled alters
New religions, new beginnings
Fractured veins, pump poison to this soulful heart
Mirrored miracles
One solitary freak’s public masquerade
You always pulled the trigger, just never wanted the bullets to spill out

Hurt is subjective
Why then is opinion objective?
You watch the game, but fear to play it
You cuss the players, but aren’t a team player yourself
Living is bleeding – I am surprised you’ve not learned it

You didn’t create this… Therefore you can’t kill it
You didn’t envisage this… Therefore you can hardly harm it
Erase your image, you’ll be stripped down and eclipsed
You’ll see nothing when you look at yourself
Just don’t bark every time they tug your leash… Whore

I am what you are not
I am what you may never be
Is your hate justified?
Are your thought patterns solidified?
If you look far inside you’ll find freedom and scars that appreciate this life

Or are you just another empty vessel
Tangled flesh and a mass of sinew
A pathetic instrument to feed fuel to the industry?

I am what you may never become

Don’t watch the game… Come play it, Whore.