To Lose Oneself in Art

to lose oneself in creation is to abandon the world outside,
to drift into the boundless expanse of the inner mind.
the taste of art is intoxicating—a feast of haunted literature,
music that loops a frozen moment in time,
and endless visions that blur the line between reality and imagination.
it feels divine, this escape,
as if the soul has been untethered from the mundane.
yet the farther one sinks into this curated dream,
the more suffocating the weight of the outside becomes.

friends call, lovers reach, the world knocks at the door,
but it all feels like a demand—a pull back into a society that doesn’t understand.
they ask for collaboration, for connection, for a shared life.
but how can one explain the sanctuary of solitude?
how can they see the beauty in this inner realm
when their world thrives on the external?

still, the truth lingers: the faces of others are mirrors.
every misinterpretation, every disconnection between the inner worlds of one another,
reflects back pieces of oneself.
the flaws seen in them are fractures of one’s own heart;
their dependence mirrors the yearning for meaning.
it’s all a labyrinth of reflections, twisting endlessly,
trapping the creator in their own image.

there is no escape from this duality—
just as there is no escape from the love of pain,
the revulsion of beauty,
the lies told to shield fragile truths.
creation is born from these contradictions,
yet it cannot free the creator from them.
each page, each melody, each work of art is a fleeting moment of clarity,
a breath in the drowning sea.