I realised that success and pure creativity are not very

“I realised that success and pure creativity are not very compatible,” said Vangelis, the master of soundscapes who gave voice to the stars through music. His words ring like a lament from one who has walked the twin paths of glory and art, and found that they often diverge rather than merge. For in the marketplace of men, where gold is weighed heavier than vision, the artist is often bound by invisible chains. The higher he climbs the ladder of success, the more he is demanded to repeat, to satisfy, to sell. But true creativity is like the wind—it does not return to where it has already blown; it longs for new horizons, for unknown shores.

The ancients would have said: “The muses dwell in freedom, but flee from the chains of expectation.” For what is art if not the whisper of the eternal, unpredictable, untamed? Yet when success arrives, it often demands that the artist cease wandering and instead build temples to past triumphs. The people cry, “Sing again the song we love! Paint again the picture we know! Repeat the miracle we once adored!” Thus the creator, who once soared freely, becomes a prisoner of his own past victories, chained not by enemies, but by admirers.

Consider the tale of Leonardo da Vinci, whose genius stretched across invention, painting, and science. The world adored his Mona Lisa, yet Leonardo himself grew restless, abandoning works, forever seeking something new. Patrons pressed him for portraits and commissions, yet his heart often fled into notebooks filled with flying machines and anatomical sketches. Here lies the truth: success demanded repetition, but his creativity rebelled, yearning for exploration beyond what brought him wealth and recognition. His unfinished works are not failures, but testimonies to a soul unwilling to be bound by the chains of applause.

Another lesson can be drawn from the poet Homer, if indeed he was one man and not many. The Iliad and Odyssey shook the foundations of Greek culture, yet no work of his ever came after. Did success silence him? Did the demand to echo his own greatness weigh heavier than the desire to create anew? Whether one man or a chorus of voices, the truth is the same: once glory was achieved, silence followed. The expectation of repetition can still the voice of creativity, leaving only echoes instead of fresh songs.

Vangelis, who painted galaxies in sound, speaks not only as a composer but as a prophet of the artist’s burden. He warns us that success is a double-edged sword: it brings power, recognition, and wealth, but it also tempts us to abandon the path of daring exploration. To choose success alone is to become a product, a shadow repeating old glories. To choose creativity is to risk failure, poverty, and obscurity—but also to remain true to the wild flame of inspiration. The two together, rarely do they walk in harmony.

The lesson is clear: if you are a creator, guard your freedom as you would guard your very soul. Accept success when it comes, but do not let it bind you. When voices cry for repetition, answer instead with something bold and new. Better to be remembered as restless and daring than as a stagnant well repeating yesterday’s water. For creativity is a living river—it must flow forward, or it becomes a swamp.

Practically, this means you must carve time for experiments that may never see the light of profit. Create works for yourself, not for the crowd. Let failure be your companion, for it is proof that you are still moving, still risking, still alive. Remember: success belongs to the world, but creativity belongs to you. Choose carefully which master you will serve.

And so, O seekers of wisdom, take this teaching to heart: the world will always reward your past, but only you can honor your future. Do not let your art be imprisoned by the applause of yesterday. Instead, walk bravely into the unknown, and there you shall find not only creativity, but also the freedom of the soul.