I wonder to myself
how can an artist escape the fear of themselves and failure? My
fingers and mind have run dry as of late. I’ve written pages that later I
re-read and they feel false like illusions of what I really want to say. We
live in a world where everyone can try and yet no one does. Once great novels
and pages of ideas breathed out the life of the infinite for those
yearning for more, but now it’s all just an Iphone application. Even right in
this moment, I can feel an overwhelming feeling of stopping writing and
looking at something else. Maybe that is the pull back into the normal, the
pull back into everyone else. I don’t want that, I want to wade into the murky
forests not seen before and recorded... I want to be real at least to myself. Charles
Dickens quote lingers in my mind: “Whether
I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life... “
At least now, I
don’t care about success at least in that normal way. I just want to do
something I can be proud of, I want to make myself happy and do what for me has
always been so hard... living in the moment without thoughts of excitement in
the future or memories of the past. Why can’t I be a Kerouac who pounds the
keys for three straight days?... (it’s hard enough to pound them for 3 straight
minutes) possessed by the a spirit that
only the likes of him and Henry Miller will ever know... a two way connection to
the world Élan. All I get is uncertainty of self next to a world I’m not always
sure I want to be a part of yet can’t turn my eyes away from. This is my time,
not the past or the future, but right now. The choice is mine whether to cower
from possibility or bask in its warmth...
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