In the depths.
The canvas doesn’t matter.
The paints no longer matter.
What I’m doing, does it matter?
Am I fueled by ego? As it whispers it’s intent, it’s own will upon me, I am told there is a worth to some of this life that I inherited, ego’s poison seeping into me and as it trails to my most deepest depths of thought, it hijacks my mind and sends me into overdrive; a heightened state of creation, a cluttered space, having all the power but feeling void when it comes to using it.
Like staring at lightening in a bottle. Theres power, unlimited force, but its encased in a transparent forcefield, trapped, kept prisoner.
My power, my abilities, are endless, but I am sheathed in a cloth woven by my own hands, it strangles, cloys, as it encases me. I am but a maker of my own weakness, a destroyer of my own worlds.
I am both the ego, and the imposter.
