The Death of the Artist I/III

Sometimes, the feeling of always being on the move isn't a choice but a prison.

The creative mind, so restless, ends up hurting itself in the process. I wanted to be living off my art, creating something that connected people, collaborating with amazing brands, being recognized, traveling, giving talks, turning ideas into tangible things. I wanted to feel that all of this is worth it.

But in the end, I realized it might all be an illusion. I've chased this dream for so long that now I'm face to face with the darkest thoughts I've ever had. It's scary to realize that, in the end, only I can deal with them.I push myself too hard. I need to be productive, be creative, be relevant, but this "ocean of references" that should inspire me feels more like a void. A blank page that doesn't accept drafts.

I'm exhausted. It's been a while since I felt like an artist because my work has become about solving problems, creating connections between brands and users. It's functional, not emotional.

And capitalism? Oh, it won. There's no room left for anything else.

The hardest part is admitting this without seeming ungrateful. I have a studio, clients, money.

On paper, I have "success." But the price was my sanity. And realizing that was like a punch.

The artist I thought lived within me, the one who dreamed, created, and saw beauty in everything... is dead.

What remains is just the machine, and machines don't feel.