I like drawings with imperfect lines,
paint that goes just a little over the edges.
I find chips in decorative craft
adorable.
Unbalanced stitches, shaky layers, and disorganized canvases.
Human hands are wonderful;
some are masterful
and most are unsteady—
nonetheless in constant pursuit
of beauty.
Some strokes of genius happen
by mistake
and discoveries abound
in misfortune.
Feats such that unfeeling
virtual hands
can never hope to achieve.
There’s no inspiration in programmed manipulations.
No creativity
in unthinking sets of flashing cards
that only show what one wants to see.
No toil, no heart, no virtue;
they are dead,
moved only by this virus
rapidly infecting our perceptions.
They lie.
They take the names of objects
of ridiculous combinations
to convince themselves that they are real,
and trick us into believing
we are weak
for not going with the times.
They force our hands into the mud
in which they roll
with their stolen treasures.
We are gaslit into thinking
our works are no better
for the very reason they are:
our toil,
our hearts,
our virtue.
Natalia Go
7 October 2025
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