I think myself an artist, and, in so doing, hold my head steady, and with a subconscious commitment, thrust it so far up my ass that I no longer know myself different from an unripe melon. Now, I don't mean to say that I have nary a notion of who I believe I am. What I am implying is that who I believe I am can in no way be accurate. As I plummet further and further down into the rabbit hole of shadows, where creating feels realer than living, my own opinion of myself can no longer be trusted. Those around me, my family and peers, have an opinion of me, be it good or not, that could possibly be more precise than that of my own. And in this state of mind, I look to those around me for their perspectives of who I am, because they have better an idea than I.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
A Writer Under The Influence
You see, as an artist, there is a certain self-abandon present in all my decisions. My art is far more important to the world than I am, and because of that, my priorities are reflected accordingly, and when you have been creating art for a number of years, and abandoning ones self in proportion, what can you truly know about yourself beyond the art which you produced? Like the tumbling snow ball or the rippling water, with each passing moment and each decision made, the effect compounds itself in such a way that for the snow ball to become smaller it has to stop and melt, likewise for the water, ripples only cease when the action causing them does so to. So to continue creating art furnishes the continuance of my fading self-awareness.
If one's opinion of me is that I get ahead of myself and fail to finish things which I start; they are probably correct. If someone thinks that I am selfish, caring, responsible or unaccountable for my actions, well, who am I to argue? So you can understand, or hope to at least, the mental state I am in as I continue, in this life, to paint the self portrait of a man I do not know.
writing under the influence,