The creek bed has been cut off from its source; the wheel is turning; the light is shining; there is no hiding place for those exposing themselves. The well has run dry for entertainers, those who sold their souls. They all got a taste of sweet nothingness and were worshipped but for a short time. But it is not as vigorous as it once was, not as dynamic as those words that used to flow like water onto the page and into the notes and melodies. Now it is our turn; our turn to decimate your decaying fetid waste of a culture, to mock and laugh at those idols. The tap is flowing on my end now, from the well that never runs dry. You drank at the fountain of youth and were worshipped as a god. I died to myself, was born again, and became someone who can carry a burden, who has a backbone, and who is willing to be completely and utterly alone in life should all those around me lose their faith.
The Son is rising and no amount of drawn curtains and blood injections will keep your migraines away; the comedown is going to be terrifying, and you won’t even be able to produce good music or art anymore from it. The tap is turned off, sputtering, coughing, and you’ll see that whole artifice start to shudder at impending life anew.
As you’ve suspected in dark neon nights when you let the parasite take hold upon your soul, you have merely calcified your freedom, your life. And as that loser from the beginning has started to lose his grasp on the plan, you’ve become more and more rigid and indistinguishable from the others of your ilk. You now all have the same opinions, the same laughter, the same chastising moral superiority and the same damnation reserved for you. So throw up your symbols, they no longer hold the center together; you are spiraling downwards on off into the ether, and outside of the monoculture no one will truly remember you. Your creativity is but a pale imitation of the coming judgment. The path is narrow; the harvest is beginning; the Son is returning.
The rain at sunset piercing through mist shrouded gloom will never feel alive to you; the wonder and joy of wind saturated forests roaring at the creation of the world ring hollow when you are already in the abyss. Your story increasingly involves cymbals and nothing else, mainly to stave off the silent nothingness you are inevitably hurtling towards.
You sold your soul. You gained the cold, empty world. You worship a loser who knows only utter, absolute tyranny can keep the dam from breaking.
The question remains, and it’s really only rhetorical at this point, was it worth it? The fame, the adulation, the energy that now renders you an impotent mouthpiece reciting the same dead narrative of all those others who performed the same blasphemy; were the past heights greater or lesser than any other person of similar ilk now lost forever?
Satan didn’t make music nor art, he was placed in charge of it but for a short time as king of this age. And this age is setting; he has less and less control, less impressive art and music. He’s fading. Christ followers will inherit the art, and we shall sweeten the ever-spiraling joy upwards. Abandon the fading of night and awaken to the rising Son.
You are locked ever further inside the dungeons reserved for those in the abyss. The best you have to hope for is to drag others with you; and that’s becoming harder by the day. We, on the other hand, have a whole world to imbibe and explore. The future is the light; darkness is fading.