🔮 Those Who Flow: A Devotion to Wild, Sacred Artistry

If you’re reading this, maybe some part of you is gasping with relief. Because you know this too.

I don’t make art to impress the world.

I make art to stay alive.

To stay open.

To remember who I am beneath all the polish and programming.

I make art to touch the edges of the divine — and sometimes, if I’m lucky, to let God dream through me.

This is the artist’s vow:

“I won’t shrink.

I won’t polish.

I won’t perform.

I will get quiet enough, cracked open enough,

that God can enter.”

To be a true artist is not to perform beauty —

but to become the vessel of the unseen.

To feel everything too much.

To be undone.

To risk ridicule.

To be cosmic, erotic, mythic, fluid.

To trust your body when the world tells you to sit still.

To move when the world demands silence.

To speak when your voice shakes.

Because art doesn’t come from perfection.

It comes from permission.

Permission to be haunted and holy.

To make the unspeakable visible.

To be the oracle at the edge of the woods.

To let your hands shake.

To bleed on the page.

To move in strange, sensual prayer until the sacred floods back in.

You Are Not Here to Be Nice

You’re not here to be digestible.

You’re not here to be understood.

You’re not even here to be liked.

You’re here to remember —

to remember that you are a threshold‑being, born to walk between worlds.

You are not a brand.

You are a portal.

You are the tremor before revelation, the silence before thunder.

You are the pulse of God exploring itself through color, through sound, through skin.

And yes, it’s terrifying.

Yes, the nervous system will tremble.

Yes, your old selves will beg you to go back.

But you keep going.

You keep painting when the muse turns cruel.

You keep writing when your words feel raw.

You keep singing even when your own echo scares you.

Because once you taste the raw pulse of authenticity, there is no turning back.

You have seen the real.

You have heard the language of the eternal.

And nothing false can satisfy you again.

My Artist’s Invocation

If you need something to anchor you — a way to begin — here is the spell I whisper before I write, dance, or let my art rise:

“I allow the weird, the wild, the wounded.

I allow the holy and the haunting.

I trust the ache in my chest, the fire in my hips.

I create not to be seen —

but to see.

Let me be a doorway.

Let me be real.

Let me remember.”

This is how I return.

This is how I create.

This is how I stay in devotion to the source that made me.

Each act of creation is a resurrection —

a small death followed by breath.

Each brushstroke, each word, each movement

is the soul re‑entering the body after too long away.

Art is not what we make.

Art is what remakes us.

When you create, you are participating in divine memory.

You are reminding the universe of its own beauty.

You are giving shape to the invisible,

voice to the voiceless,

and form to the formless.

That is no small task.

That is priestess work, prophet work,

the sacred labor of the ones who flow between matter and spirit.

And so, when the doubt comes — because it will —

when the critics sneer, or the numbers fail to rise,

or your heart feels too heavy to make anything at all —

remember this:

You are not here to entertain.

You are here to embody revelation.

You are not chasing relevance.

You are carrying resurrection.

And you never create alone.

The divine is always reaching through your hands.

Written by @thehonedcrone

For the wild‑hearted, trauma‑forged, sacred rebels creating from the edge of awakening.

For those who bleed colour and breathe prayer.

For those who remember that art is worship in disguise.

If you’ve been cracked open and lived to tell it in colour — welcome.

You belong here.

You always have.

🖤