Dead Art, Decaying Artist

The cigarette breathes between his teeth, stained with regret for getting in this mess in the first place. But it's an escape, each drag sending relief deeper into desperate lungs, crying out for warmth that only the smoke can provide.

What do the wicked dream of?
Do they dream of all they have hurt? Faces falling into line, moments of pain painted on there faces like it were an artwork. Perhaps that's the best comparison one can make, for if art is conveying meaning and emotion then perhaps the wicked are artists in themselves.
Perhaps we all are, each person trying to make something they can call there own in a world that is so quick to cry equality yet cares so little about other peoples opinions. Standding upon pedestals preaching that art is dead like the heralds themselves.

Do I agree?

Of course not. As a patron of the arts I can't bare to agree lest I admit a part of myself is dead too.
But perhaps art is dying, and as a human I bare the same curse.
Perhaps this is symbolic of something, that art Has been nothing more than a metaphor for the human condition. That each genre of art is nothing more than a reminder that time has passed and another generation has fallen.

What would my generation say, I wonder?

Ruled by technology.
Plagued by our differences
Watched by our peers for everyone is trying to look better than they really are. We don't live alongside each other, we live above one another, as if every action or word we do and say will bring us one rung closer to enlightenment.

Where has the music gone?

Its a game - a sadistic one at that.
And media is the greatest judge of all. We can no longer view without casting judgement anymore. We can no longer be contempt with opinions that aren't our own. We hunger for the acceptance of others, fulfilling our lust for attention but we will never be satisfied.
They tell me children are starving and I tell them I agree, I see them all around me on the street. People drinking in others image, feeding of the thoughts that they look better than them, casting judgement faster than the sun casts shadows.
But it's the same old song people have been singing for years, I've just been too caught up in myself to hear it, for I too am just like them. No matter how hard I try to separate myself I will always fall in line.
They want equality, well that have it, for we are all subject to oppression. The people who escape it? Well, they're judged most of all, for they made it out when no one else could.
Everyone wants equality yet it was our differences that made us equal. It let us sing with our own voice and laugh the way we wanted to.

But at what cost?

Art is dying, and we too are dying with it. But when I die and my bones have given growth to a world that I hope is better than this one, these words will remain like fossils, buried here, reminding everyone that once upon a time when I was young, my words were my own, and they sang to the sound of the music.