For the Love of Art

My art is my life. I live for it. I thrive on it. Without it, I would be reduced to nothing.1

No one ever recognizes me for my art; no one understands. I laugh at myself, because now I sound like one of those artists obsessed with themselves, who pretend to live tortured lives for attention. Personally, I wouldn't be able to take it people knew that I was the artist they all talked about; that I was the artist they all gasped at, scorned, and secretly admired. I wouldn't be able to take the questions, and people asking me why. Why did I do this? What led me to that? Where did I come up with my inspiration. But just because I wouldn't wan them asked doesn't mean I wouldn't know how to answer. 2

I'd tell them I owe everything to my family. They were my first inspiration, and my first work of art. I didn't get along with them, oh no not at all, but I love them so much more since they were featured as my masterpiece. Most people say that their art was driven by love and tranquility. I say, to hell with love and tranquility. Some of my best pieces were motivated by hate. 3

But they don't know, and if I have anything to say about it, they never will. I'd never have any peace if they did. Everything would simply go away if people found out, and my art, my reason for living, would be gone.4

I don't really know what it is that instills this passion within me. I've loved it since the very beginning, but I've never bothered to ask why. It's really all about the creativity I guess; the need to come up with something new each time. Trying to come up with a new idea can make one scream… even go mad, some say. Sometimes, you just can't see the reason for having to suffer so much for what you love. It makes you want to quit; it makes you want to just stop trying. It's worth it in the end, though the afterwards can drive you just as crazy.5

People are staring at me. I guess the "wine" my friend spilled on me earlier might attract some attention, as would the fact that I'm carrying a dirty old bag. I should probably get rid of this…6

I'm standing in some alleyway with a soiled bag, and an extra shirt I'd brought in case this would happen. Just one last thing to do and one of my greatest works will be done.7

It's really too bad I can't keep a souvenir. You know, something to remember this one work by. The newspaper clippings are nice, but sometimes I want something more. I shut the lid on the dumpster now, taking one last look at the knife and blood-soaked shirt. They won't find the body until tomorrow, and a truck will have picked up the trash by then. They shall never know who killed… hmmm, that's odd. I can't seem to remember who it was that died tonight. Ah, well. It's for the love of art...8