The people I write for are dead.
Doing something for its own sake used to be creativity’s Kumbh Mela. Now it resembles one guy grunting in the gym. You have my attention and it’s because I want to knee you in the groin.
Doing something for its own sake doesn’t mean you don’t care what people think. There’s only one creative pursuit where that’s possible, and it’s called Keeping Up with the Kardashians.
I wrote this essay for its own sake, but I care what you think. It brings me just enough insecurity to not put up shit, but not enough to stop me from my eternal creative quest to tell shit from shinola.
In doing something for its own sake, you preserve your suffering for work instead of the result of the work.
Let’s face it. What we now call sharing is onanism. It’s why each time you get sucked off by self-importance you question the purpose of creativity and creating. This isn’t about you. It never was.
This is about everyone else.
You are wrong when you think you do something for yourself. Creation is the altar of civilization. It’s not sharing. It’s sacrifice. When you draw, write, read, pirouette, you are taking part in a prayer. And what you create, you owe to all the people who bled themselves to share their faith with you.
The essays here aren’t mine. It’d be ridiculous to even think so.
In reading, you wrote this.
All creation is a sharing of the unknown. A creator, in all but religious conviction, is a believer.