People asked me why I speak in such grand terms when talking about fashion, art, or creation itself, as if expecting greatness were some delusion, as if I were being unreasonable for demanding more. They told me I sounded like a cynic, like someone who only tears down. But I am not a cynic. I do not rage because I want to destroy, I rage because I care.
They tell me I care too much, that I should temper my expectations, learn to live with what is realistic, that my obsession with beauty, with greatness, with creation that does not just exist but demands worship, is a kind of madness.
And to that, I say, good. Let it be madness.
The world is drowning in mediocrity, and worse, it has learned to love its own suffocation. It chokes on art that neither wounds nor exalts, on buildings that neither inspire nor impose, on design that neither elevates nor disturbs, and it calls this progress.
I refuse.
I refuse to pretend that what is acceptable is enough. I refuse to nod along while cowards drape their half-baked, risk-averse creations in the cheap robes of “innovation” and expect applause. I refuse to sit quietly while the world lowers its standards until nothing remains but a beige-colored purgatory where no one is offended, no one is inspired, and no one is alive.
And if that makes me unreasonable, then let me be the most unreasonable person in the room.
The Poison of the Acceptable
Look at what we have become. A civilization that once reached for the heavens is now content with strip malls. Once, we built cathedrals, now we build parking structures with windows and call them “modernist.” Once, we composed symphonies, now we generate beats designed to offend no one. Once, we painted frescos that made men tremble, now we smear colors on a canvas and call it conceptual.
Our ancestors cracked the sky open with their ambition, and we, we applaud things for being “not bad.”
Not bad! What an insult.
I write because I cannot stand it. I write because the very thought of this gray sludge, this polite, toothless, inoffensive sludge, makes me sick. I write because somewhere, buried beneath years of conditioning, people still ache for something greater. I write because I want to rip mediocrity apart with my bare hands, to tear it from the roots, to burn it so thoroughly that no one ever again dares to mistake it for art.
I do not write for those who are content. I write for the hungry.
The Hunger for the Impossible
I crave greatness like an addict craves his next breath, like an exile crawling toward the gates of Olympus, parched and desperate for just a sip of the divine. The thought alone sets my nerves on fire. A world drenched in true beauty, not this watered-down, mass-produced, tastefully dull nonsense, but something sublime, unbearable, holy. A world where architecture does not just shelter but bends space like divine scripture, where buildings are erected not to be efficient, but to dwarf humankind into reverence, to make them feel, for one glorious moment, like ants in the presence of something far greater than themselves.
A world where fashion is not merely worn, but transforms, where a garment is not an accessory but a sacrament, an act of devotion, an altar to human ambition, a fabric-bound metamorphosis that turns flesh into something mythic. Where a film is not just a moving image but a virus, something that infects, burrows into the subconscious, rewiring the viewer from the inside out. Where music does not soothe, but possesses, where every note is a doorway to something vaster, something that makes your bones hum with the knowledge that you have been touched by something otherworldly. Where books do not just tell stories, but split the mind open like a blade, carving new pathways in the soul, forcing the reader to confront something they cannot unsee.
This is the world I ache for. This is what should be.
And now, look at what we actually have.
Derivative, soulless, cowardly products masquerading as vision. Art that is competent but never dangerous. Buildings that are efficient but never divine. Music that is pleasant but never transcendent. Films that entertain but never haunt. Books that are well-written but never leave scars. A parade of safe, lukewarm, market-tested banality, things made to be consumed, not to consume you.
And what’s worse? People accept this.
They bow before mediocrity, nodding along as if this is the best we can do. They clap politely for work that should be torn apart. They throw laurels at the feet of art that should be dragged into the streets and executed for its cowardice.
I write because I want to rip the mask from their faces and scream,
“Have you forgotten what it means to want more?”
To aspire to the gods, to defy gravity, to break the limits of flesh, to build as if eternity were watching?
Have you forgotten that creation should be an act of warfare against the ordinary, that to build, to write, to design, to compose is to declare war on the smallness of man and demand something worthy of the divine?
I do not want good. I do not want clever. I do not want acceptable.
I want the kind of creation that makes the gods themselves lean forward in their thrones, that makes them ask, “Who dares?”
And if I am the only one left who dares, then so be it.
The Insanity of Settling
They will call this unreasonable. They will call it naïve, foolish, delusional.
They will tell you that the pursuit of greatness is futile, that art is just a commodity now, that no one cares, that to expect more, to demand more, is to be lost in the past, that beauty, transcendence, and the feral ambition to create something truly divine are outdated relics of another time, the obsessions of madmen.
Let them talk.
These are the same small creatures who, had they been there, would have stood at the foot of the Parthenon and asked, “But isn’t this a little excessive?” The same dullards who would have watched Michelangelo carve the Sistine Chapel and muttered, “But isn’t that a bit much for a ceiling?” The same human gnats who, when asked to reach beyond the stratosphere, would have sneered, “Why go to the moon when we have perfectly good land here?”
Where would we be if we had always thought this way?
I will tell you, nowhere. We would be a species without fire, huddled in the dark, worshiping our own cowardice. We would be scratching crude shapes into the dirt, mistaking them for architecture. We would be banging rocks together, mistaking them for music. We would be draped in rags, mistaking them for clothing. We would be grunting in caves, mistaking it for language.
We would have never become anything worth becoming.
But we did not get here by settling. We got here by challenging the impossible, by spitting in the face of reason and saying, “Watch me.” We have built against gravity, carved against time, painted against the will of God Himself. Every great work, every monument, every breakthrough in thought, every work of art that altered the very fabric of reality, all of it was born from the minds of those who refused to kneel before what was “reasonable.”
And yet, now, here we are, enslaved by the doctrine of good enough.
This is why I write. Not to be reasonable. Not to be “realistic.” I write to set fire to the altar of mediocrity, to take a sledgehammer to the fragile bones of acceptable, to rip the curtain away and remind people that they were meant for more, that creation is not just an act but a conquest, that to build, to write, to design, to compose is not to fill a void, but to declare dominion over time itself, to forge something so undeniable that it does not beg for remembrance but forces itself into eternity, unyielding, undeniable, and immune to the erosion of indifference.
To create is to challenge the heavens themselves.
And if that makes me a madman, then let me be the maddest of them all. Let me be the lunatic clawing at the gates of Olympus, demanding entry, not with reverence, but with the audacity to stand among them.
I write these things because I believe in that world.
And I will burn before I apologize for that.
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