13 Deaths

Burnt

--BURNT -

 Everything is here- all of my more important works are here, I am here, the disappointment is here. Failed artist with her artworks... oh, I didn't even get to the first step so that I can say that I failed as an artist, I simply didn't make it, no matter how hard I tried it. A full moon illuminates the meadow full of colorful flowers, which looked like small Christmas's lights under the moon's light. It's time to set up the fire.

 I always knew that I wanted to be an artist, even though I wasn't like those blessed children whose parents helped their artistic side to develop from a young age. My drawings were scribbles, my singing was part of the children's play, my songs were worse than others. To others it was all part of the transient phase- to me it was the beginning of what I am. Time and practice changed things: my drawings were becoming nice, voice pleasant, songs interesting. No one even mentioned that in the first grade I had a terrible handwriting because of left-handedness, but that improved after a hand exercises. They say that left-handed are good artists, because we have a more developed right side of the brain, one in charge of sound, colors, visual effects. Right-handed are better in communication and logical things like learning text or mathematics because they have developed the left side of the brain. I often find myself admiring some color or design while others are thinking about a completely different thing. I may be an alternative, but I love colors and enjoy the right combinations at the right place. My favorite combination is blue-purple-pink, this combination represents coldness, serenity, magic, childhood. I also love combination of black and dark blue, or black with red, that satisfies my dark side.

 I mainly draw females and design clothes, so I wanted to be a designer at the end of high school, next to music career. Now I haven't succeeded neither.

 I feel disappointed in my drawings when I see what kind of artists exist... I'm ashamed to talk about my talent for drawing. It's true for everything else, I don't feel worth enough for some praise.

 My stories, from imaginative fairy tales, have become depressing stories inspired by suicide. No better situation with songs, on the contrary, each is more morbid than the previous one. I don't know if it makes me keep going or slows me down, but I have no choice.

 Music is the only thing that makes me keep going or, better to say, that made me keep going, only she had the power to keep me from falling into my secret desire. Somebody who saw my works would knew what my secret desire was, although they will know this anyway.

 From the early days I liked dance music, later techno, disco and related ones (dubstep, house, electronics ...) but I discovered my greatest love in the age of sixteen -metal. So much new inspiration, so much beauty in one genre. So much freedom ... I discovered what my voice could do, I didn't even know that I was able to sing all these complicated parts.

 I'm afraid to say that I'm good, I'm afraid not to ruin something, so I'm avoiding to speak positively about myself. Besides, the person I don't tolerate has told me that I'm too proud because I told someone what grades I have. Hell yeah, like I didn't try for those grades,but also for all this. Behind my art are many years of work, however it is that's my personal progress. I don't want people to think of me as arrogant person when I say something positive about my work; I'm embarrassed every time it happens. It still doesn't mean that I tolerate so-called singers who boast of alleged career and hits, if it is obvious that they have come to that with nudity, not with talent. Maybe some would hate me for saying it, but I hate show business just because of it, I'm sorry for all those less-known singers who sounds perfect but the bright future is not waiting for them. I am talking mostly about underground genres, maybe that's one of the reasons I couldn't make a band-no one wants a band without perspective.

 I've tried it, it's not that I haven't. Since embarrassing in the choir where people laughed at the way I look, years of working on my voice passed. I bought the gear, the members canceled. I wanted to try it myself, I don't have the opportunity for such a thing under the current conditions . I just practiced and practiced, went to audition and felt because they didn't want someone who didn't sing the "tra-la-la" songs (very simple songs with no meaning), I continued to practice, broke mentally, got up, I practiced, felt again. I am sick of this cursed circle of disappointment.

 Disappointment when you get the lower grades on the art class while everybody praise your drawing. Disappointment when you write a story that no one likes except you or, on the contrary, everyone else likes except you. Disappointment when the imaginary artwork doesn't turn out as you expected, when you are trying hard but you don't have the inspiration to finish it, when the voice doesn't sound okay, when people are ridiculing something you are trying to accomplish. The disappointment ... when you no longer have mental strength and you have to admit to yourself that it is the end. There is no more purpose to rise as a phoenix- too much ash is in these wings, they are more and more black of every new breakdown. There is another one, last fire.

 I'm looking at this fire in front of me. Everything that I ever wanted to say is written in the notebooks next to me, I simply don't know what to add. I don't matter, neither my works, we will never be important to someone like my favorite musicians were to me, they gave me the inspiration to create, along with that and to live for my works. But, it's over. I didn't get the chance to continue, now I have to get rid of myself. Knowing that it's a the terrible agony to be burnt alive I brought a cyanide pill to quickly fall into a big sleep. I spilled gasoline on myself, put the wood so that they would come to me when they started burning, laid on my notebooks and waited for the wood to burn. As a domino effect the woods burned one by one so I quickly put cyanide in the mouth and began to shiver. The fire comes to me and flared up heavily, covered the artist and her artworks.

 It was the last fire for this phoenix, it won't be born anymore.