Turmoil, silence and my words

It is 2 in the night. I am nocturnal since childhood. But, I always try to adjust my schedule where I sleep fairly early and start my day when morning is vibrant and fresh. I haven’t found good reasoning for this sleep late-start day late schedule. I even feel that day should get its own rhythm by whatever work I am trying to do. Exogenous planning doesn’t sustain for long. A work where disciplined is much productive ends up being routine following activity. The work which demands some sort of turbulence on part of doer converts into uncertain one. Where we need turbulence?
Artists, as I can say by my own little exposure to artist within, certainly need turbulence. Even a thinker, philosopher or activist faces such turbulence. I am not just talking about flux of thoughts and drive one faces in one. There is evident chaos in whatever system one tries to understand. It might be named as diversity, but with whatever term we have for it, it does not allow having simple and plausible reasoning about it. As a writer, when I try to portray any individual, even at simplest level I find counter intuitive views. This variance in perception ignites churning machine in our mind. Failures of connection in different events in similar conditions make us think about conjectures of ultimate human similarities. Is there anything, any art, philosophy, religion, society or any human creation, which is simple, far away from complexity?
But with this omnipresence of chaos, so true is the existence of everything amid this chaos. If there is nothing balancing these entropical tendencies, sheer divergence of mutual actions, how can anything exist at all? How some or other way, we connect? There is something like balance, a calm deep silence which governs us too. We even sense it, some rare inward looking moments, when we touch or have glimpse of it.
The pleasure or wonder is this co-existence. I do not want to reiterate it. Its cliché. What I am trying to tell is how artist differs and their arts, by these balancing forces.
The moods, affairs, controversies and tragic ends associate very closely with most of genuine artists. It is not entirely market demand. To a large extent, they have to have them, to generate a necessary imbalance which will force them to express what they end up expressing better that most of us. The cost paid by any artist is this lifelong turmoil. Any art is not an end for artist, but a selfish way to progress in this turmoil. When turmoil reaches its end, either in wild, stormy peak or experience of something great, artist ends too. Then either remains a shadow of him or a suicide note or a silent solitude, awaiting new turmoil.
There are others, rare, who converse even with this turmoil. They form a tune, an unsung rhythm even in the dins of uncertainties. They see world not as product of incoherencies, but creation of utmost intricate connections. When they express these views of them through their art forms, even if we see them near improbable, we cannot discard it. I can’t at least, even when for me, everything is sure journey towards disorder.
Every art form has some stakes in it. The moment artist leaves his connection from it; there comes realization that it could have been even better. What is moment till I should hold it and when I should leave it to live on its own? Not a very simple question. Especially when what you are going to leave is sole steady platform you had beneath your feet. It is survival that has to be challenged to express anything and even after such a stake, what comes is imperfect. Any art should not be judged by the contradictions or imperfections pointed by impotent critics, but by extent of blood, flesh and existence artist have put on stake.
Simple!! I am alive yet mean I haven’t put best of my stakes. Let me play it my friend, wait, game is getting interesting.