Pretension

I used to be the one who truly believed artists could change the world. I thought that a brush stroke could turn a painting into social and political commentary that will shape young minds and inspire the evolution of a race of conscious human beings – instead of the droves of brain-dead savages whose only contribution to society is that they followed something somewhere along the line.

I was above it all, and consumed in my own pretension. Every poetic verse spoke to me. Every song lyric, every kick and every snare composed a score to my life story. I was alive and inspired by creativity. I shared stories with artists, and they became the voices that echoed my pain. There were no responsibilities, no bond, no 9 to 5 – only blissful awareness of just being. I looked down at the droves with disdain and with some pity, for their blind suffering.