The Magicians

A Poem by Abbie

This a poem about artists and how crazy their worlds are compared to non-artists.

It is only the insane that create magic.

Seriously, when was the last time you've heard of a stable person creating any type of art? Van Gogh, a post-Impressionist painter, ate yellow paint because he thought it would bring him happiness. Bill Evans, an insanely clever jazz pianist, drank himself to death. For crying out loud, these men were delirious. But I have Starry Night hanging on my bedroom wall and I listen to my Bill Evans record more often than not. It's a bit ironic how one man's suffering is another's beauty and joy.

Its all part of the Magician's Code.

And how is it that a person can lock themselves in a room for hours beyond the setting and rising sun and ignore all of the temptations brought on by hunger pains and the drooping of their dark eyelids and the calls of responsibility? Why would any human being be compelled to such a thing? Its the mad men Magicians. Stepping into a doctor's office and The Magicians could be labelled as "depressed" or "schizophrenic" or a multitude of other things but do not be fooled! It is just the simple nature of The Magicians. Those Godforsaken hooligans! is translated into truly, an inspiration to us all. Looks can be deceiving when dealing with A Magician. They may appear to be a walking ray of sunshine or in contrary, they could appear to be the Grim Reaper. It is not their physical realm that speaks. It is their soul that does the talking. Their hand is simply the messenger of both the thoughts in their head and the feelings in their soul. Let their art communicate with you, not their mouth. Let the realities of their twisted dimension knock the normality out of yours like a hard blow to the stomach would knock the wind out of your lungs.

Just take it from me; it is only the insane that create magic.