There is a sad tragedy about the truth.
We seldom delve into its depths. We rarely regard such things with reverence. Some would prefer to brush it off or downplay it altogether, but there is a sad but true tragedy that lingers beneath the truth and emerges every single time that the truth is shared.
There is no anesthesia for the way that the truth rips through the innards and bowels of the artist's creative spirit. Truth digs deep and slashes smoothly, lacerating any veins of utter dependence upon previous glory. Every criticism is a potential bloodbath of beauty and every review is akin to similar massacres of masterpieces. Pure aesthetics find no shelter in such a world as this, especially while a critic holds a pen and pad.
The truth offers a glimmer of hope and a sheer glimpse of doom. It is nothing less than tragic that editorial ignorance allows so many who lack any ounce of creative ability the tools and weaponry by which to have those with creative talent at their mercy.
Yet, the real tragedy of the truth is that some, such as myself, sense the driving and leading of the creative force within to withstand the diabolical lashings of these filthy urchins. Yes, It is such a force that it compels us to stand against these despicable media minions as they crucify both us and our works with critical attacks considered to be as good as truth.
The sad tragedy about the truth is that the truth rarely comes to light when one's perspective has been tainted by one who does not possess the ability to be used creatively.
"Tis sad but so true.