They live in a solitude
In being seen for their art
And unseen in it.
An artist learns early
That some feelings refuse ordinary language.
They gather in the chest like storms,
Demanding shape,
Demanding voice,
Demanding somewhere to live.
And so the artist builds.
A poem.
A melody.
A canvas.
A photograph.
A world.
And when the creation is complete,
They praise the masterpiece.
Few notice
It was built from sleepless nights,
Unspoken heartbreaks,
And pieces of a soul
The artist could no longer carry alone.
The art is celebrated.
The loneliness that created it
Remains unnamed.
These creators becomes fluent in translation,
Forever converting the invisible
Into something others can understand.
Yet who translates them?
Who listens to their language
Before it becomes an expression?
There are moments
When the world feels impossibly distant
When every conversation skims the surface,
While the heart is drowning in oceans of isolation
Too deep to explain.
In those moments,
They discover a peculiar truth:
That being deeply seen by strangers
Is not the same as being known.
A thousand eyes may rest upon the work,
And still the soul that made it
May wander unseen.
Yet they keep expressing
Not because those storms disappears,
But because creation becomes a companion.
The blank page waits.
The brush listens.
The guitar remembers.
The camera understands.
These silent things ask for honesty
And offer no judgment in return.
So, they keep creating
Sending pieces of themselves
Into the unknowns of the world,
Hoping that somewhere,
Someone they will never meet
Will pause,
Feel less alone,
And recognize their own heartbeat
Inside the work.
And in that brief exchange,
Across time,
Across the invisible spaces Between them,
The solitude softens.
Just enough
For the artist to begin again.
June 4, 2026
