X (noun)

I think my general lack of satisfaction and discomfort from life is the sporadic yet frequent reminders that I will never reach the fullest depths of creativity possible by human kind, and that I create nothing of significance. I always knew from a young age that I would likely die by suicide, and frankly I’m surprised I’ve made it this far. Sometimes I do feel like I’m just prolonging my death however. Walking along the Hudson, I’m a bit shocked that I could be in such a beautiful place in my life, yet feel nothing but a deep pit in my stomach; the endless void inside of me. Had someone else looked through my eyes, it would probably warrant much different emotions. Yet I fail to ever feel satisfied when faced with such a grand moment of my own existence.

X is a creation of desperation. It is the need to create in a place of darkness where color fails to exist. Yet when I think of X as a creator, I still feel that anxious pit. Someone stretched out in so many different forms of art and expression will never create anything substantial from any of them. But when I switch my perspective to who — or rather what X is, I can achieve some level of satisfaction with my timed existence.

X is the seer of things that cannot be seen. The gathering of non-tangible and indescribable entities that exist between the links of humanity. The matter that floats in the air, flows between us, sinks into our bodies and causes such deep Emotions. Each artist is a seer, but each individual sees such different things that the individual is the best in their own seeing. X is its own bubble, its own collection of the universe, and its visitor the tourist gathering for their own thought collection.

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