There is a method to this madness.

There is a holy war in which I write the history… for I am its victor. Do not fall for the bells and whistles of the tale my dear; only the living get to make use of the dead.

To tell stories through art is a spiritual matter. To tell them well requires a spiritual war. This is the duty of a muse in mans skin. If your heart flutters, I sense it is yours too.

Children bleed in mines. Mothers poison their lungs. Sons extinguish each others fire. It is in service to whom?

Concepts that inhabit sick minds. Minds that have imprisoned themselves.

This is the tyrant made manifest. This is the war of flesh and bone.

What I am discussing is the war of spirit and mind. The war of a musician. A painter. A speaker. A lover.

Pressure love. So much pressure is required. The soul is boundless, but the vessel is bounded. We must make sense of such paradox.

Pressure provides clarity. It removes the burdens you can’t live with. It’s a dull pain, a fire of sorts. They say Hell is endless. They forgot to mention where.

The war of your spirit. The war of your mind. Heaven and Hell are the battlegrounds. Trust not the muse writing these words, but the spirit reading them.

If you wish to turn ash into valuable stone, you must become victorious in spirit and mind.

You must win your holy war.