We are the deranged ones. 

 

They call us crazy because we are passionate,

unstable because we live paycheck to paycheck

absurd because we refuse to work a 9-5

 

we are so invested in our craft that we couldn’t imagine our lives 

any other way

we slit our wrists just to write our words in blood

we suffocate ourselves on nooses just to paint the light we saw

we ingest toxins just so we can dream in color

 

we are crazy

but we are so vividly alive

 

we are so much more carefree than those

who see themselves in money

we are so much more happy 

than those who eat feasts for all meals

we are so much more loving

than those who have only found one word for love

 

we breathe in our work

and we breathe out happiness. 

 

we are so in tune with the world and the world sings back to us

it sings to us through our pencils, our paintbrushes, our instruments, our film

it write us notes and it colors our canvases

 

our lives are so desperate, and we are always hungry

we are hungry, craving for more in life

we are satisfied from the emotions we experience

rather than the fullness we feel after dinner

 

we sacrifice our personal lives to share our 

memories with anyone who wants to witness

there are traces of us all around the world,

in the back alleys we graffitied, 

in the hotel paper on which we wrote the first line to our novel

in the painting hanging in a Parisian coffee shop where we last left it

in the hearts and the minds of the people we have loved

and this alone keeps us alive

 

some may think we are starving

 

but we are artists. 

 

we are always content, 

content with consuming life

 

This piece has been published on Thought Catalog. You can view the published version here. 

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