The Death of the Artist

What have you done to pursue your dreams? The question hurt him more than a punch in the eye and he was beaten by life so many times. He thought of when he began to silence his own instincts; When anxiety and fear of the judgment of others shut him out.

He was not in a beautiful shell, he would not leave any pearl; When we stop believing in the things that move our spirits, we accelerate our death. He had shut himself up in a tomb, and when his corpse was buried, the worms would eat his flesh; The fragile bones, as were his, were abandoned.

Would he leave the legacy of cowardice? He was a good artist, until they tried to tame him. They called him crazy. They made him believe that without writing, he would be happier and more successful.

Success never came. The pleasure of creating became bitter, the destruction of the soul. He could be different, he could be anyone, but he had chosen to give up the dreamy heart. He would die twice in a lifetime. He only understood when it was too late: the artist's coffin is normality.

While the earth fell on him, he thought that there was no worse death than the death of dreams.