The Artist, you are nothing but a moment it time, which will fade and then be ground into pieces.
You might reform in few thousand billion years into something… maybe. Now you are nothing but a child born from a spec of star-dust. You are no more significant, remembered or meaningful than Napoleon, Rembrandt, the bum on the bus or the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz. Who knows? Once you were joined together in a violent celestial union beyond the milky way. Where pressure, temperature, and forces of nature tore you to pieces, burned you to cinders, and ripped you to shreds. And who cares? Absolutely nobody… The great cosmos does not give a wink? No. You the artist will not be remembered. Why you ask? Will anyone remember Caesar, the great minds, leaders, thinkers, revolutionaries, patriots, sages, mystics, priests? Given enough time, no. And time is in abundance. Time and the nature of things are limitless as far as we know. Yet everything is finite. You have limits which you can not escape.
One is your droll appetite for the material. Every time you breathe you express such, every time you motion to the sun or the moon to grant you wishes. You beg for untaxed moments, a carefree day. So you can create, you the artist. Your medium is anything; pain, humiliations, suffering, disgust, base natures, vile hobbies, and recreational pursuits. For the universe is anything but carefree and untaxed it is vexed and hostile in the most unforgiving way. You ask it to change its nature, to alter its course, for who? You? A self-absorbed dandy who’s omnipotent visions of grandeur dance in the vapors of self-delusion. You who wish to out-live your mortal flesh through petty creations and flights of fancy. I’m sure the serial killer, the mass murder, the homicidal maniac, the taker of human life all consider themselves some form of artists creator alchemist . For you the artist are in dark company. Your nature is sinister in the most egregious way. Your sole aim is to deceive. You wish to deceive the eye and mind into a belief which turns an artificial experience into reality. All you can offer is a two dimensional representation, a series of zeros and ones, or words on a page. That is as far as you can go. The mind fills the rest. You cheater you bastard you fraud… you artist! You are never to be trusted. There is a subversive rebellion born in you. Who knows what you have birthed into the mind? You artist, in time you will offer absolutely nothing for no one! Until then, I guess we have to put up with you…
disclaimer -this is satire do not take literally or seriously