Something about this almost feels right. It wasn’t like this always—not at least for the last hour. I was free then. Unsure of myself. Unsure what to write. Unsure if I will ever write again. With every minute, the surety of my failure felt more and more complete.
But here we are. My securing myself to my doing. Writing. And you, a reflection—an invisible reassurance of the self, carefully cultivated to look intellectually frenzied.
The paralysis of not knowing what to do is the expanse of anguish. It’s an unambitious, underachieving social state: the unknown.
And so: art.
Art carries with it fragments of freedom shattered by the artist. It’s one place where success and failure are not ends, but beginnings. Where pain and pleasure are not physical states, but prayers heard and unheard.
Art is a victim of sacrifice. It is the sound of one hand clapping. Art is a wanderlust for the unknown. It is sensational patience.
Art is silence, reorganized.
The only thing you can be sure of, the next time you create—is that you are starting like it is the first time, the last time. Everything that you know—knew—are shards of the self you had to leave behind to lighten, to continue. You flit between reassurance and insecurity because you don’t know if this is love or loss, leaving everything or coming home.
Is this life or is this what it means to live?
Is it dance or denial?
The Agony of never being fulfilled. The Ecstasy of always being full.