Illusion

Abstraction, the contagious disease, more terrible than any, taking away a part of the whole. The illusion born from the flames of the destructive, the oppressive, around which man builds his own protective world. When the truth begins to kill a person, he lives in it, protecting himself from the reality of the events around him. Artists live with the illusion of salvation through art, isolation from the social movements of the time, and security. Closed in their own creation, looking away from what is happening. The embodiment of everything that the painter dreams of, the ideals that he does not reach, the fearlessness, the dark feelings of a person, is the poet. Jealousy and striving for similarity, basing one's image around that of the other, forgetting one's own. Abstraction, penetrating the artist's soul, poison for his soul, price for his talent, taking away his humanity, turning him into a face unknown to him, into a coward. Writing misunderstood by others, even by its own author, read by no one, discarded but continued. In the poet's death is his passion, stepping out of the comfort zone, overcoming fears and giving voice to immoral actions. The blank paper, grabbed spontaneous, left unwritten, motionless in the lifeless hand of an artist doomed by his incurable disease, consumed by it, a victim of abstraction. Art kills or deceives. Trampling a yellow, feeble, fragile flower, suppressing guilt and remorse, emerging from his little studio, an artist facing reality, exposing illusion, understanding madness, burying reality. Standing in front of the canva, empty as the only thing people leave behind, painted by delusions and diseased hope, facing meaninglessness and remembering the forgotten.