Hello, it’s me. I was wondering if after all these years you still read blogs.
To go ‘er everything happening in my life. The blog’s not supposed to change ya.
Because I ain’t done much change myself.
All writing is self-help. Except self-help, which we all know is a memoir by philosophy’s pimp.
The thing with creativity is you suffer most when you have nothing to suffer for. And what happens when you grow tired of writing about your struggles? You write about your struggle with writing about your struggles.
Hello from the other side.
Creativity and suffering have been in the holy matrimony of an arranged marriage for a while now. It was convenient because you didn’t have to go looking for ideas — your suffering was practically limitless. You justified your work by suffering until you couldn’t differentiate the two. And out of this singularity grows the recognition: “there’s no love in the relationship.”
There never was. Happy Anniversary.
But given you are devoted to feeling like shit, you try a different place of love.
You have your first child. I started a blog.
This is the graveyard for creativity as we know it. Where, instead of creating art, you start creating suffering. You measure your creativity around your presence rather than your absence. Everything you produce is an attempt to get to the other side.
Of change: Success, Fame, Love. The obliteration trifecta.
You think you are figuring out who you are, but how will you recognize yourself when you are continually trying to become something else. It is the classic idea of writing to escape loneliness. You are reducing a higher state of depth by spreading it across the rest of your life. It’s why you remain shallow. Even your suffering isn’t real. It’s a means to something else. To something false.
It’s not the truth that hurts, but the recognition that you are living a lie.
Hello from the outside.
At least I can say that I’ve tried.