I like to write as if I were just a stream of consciousness. I feel the texture of the tools, and I like the sounds of the clacks. The thought of always having been a unified entity has always haunted me because I always felt separated. The stream I once had five minutes ago escapes me, and all that's left is pure and unbridled truth.
There are some principles I like to abide by: freedom of expression, love, and independence. This is the summary of the most important things for me. I know. It’s a text full of me, me, mes, and I this, I that.
Bear with me for a second because I know you are there, dear reader.
I see you.
I am talking to you right now.
Writing is an art I postponed for too much time. I always felt an innate fear of having a diary. To this day, I only have a shabby notebook with a cheap black plastic cover to write my most unhinged and dark musings. It sits beside my copy of Lolita, and it holds passwords, random thoughts, accounts of hallucinations, notes, random thoughts, and dark ideas. It’s sealed by an elastic band.
It's all written in pen and paper. I will probably want it to be burned when I die.
I think of the diaries of Sylvia Plath and how uncomfortable I felt reading them. That woman was deeply unwell, and her problems aside, imagine how abysmally embarrassed I would feel if some stranger were to read my most deeply troubling thoughts I ever dared to pass through my circuit that I call a brain.
I would resurrect just to kill myself again.
As I write, I wonder why this idea makes me feel this way. I once read somewhere that to be a good writer, you have to imagine spewing all your words into the hands of a trusted confidant.
Can I trust you, dear reader?
It's a problem that both you and I have. Yes. Don't think you are too different from me. No, no, no. If you are reading this, there is a motive, a reason. Maybe it's destiny.
As I write, I always ask myself, or the other parts of myself, if I should publish it. It's always an internal struggle; everyone wants to sit at the table to have an opinion, and I am simply fed up. Then I remember that it is my duty, as an artist, first and foremost, and then as myself, to be truthful to everyone, outside and inside.
And oh, how I hate it.
You see, I am quick to admit my own flaws to myself. The biggest flaw is that I cannot boast about my achievements. It always feels disingenuous because, yes, they are achievements in some way or another, but to me, it always feels unworthy. Because I need better. I need to do more.
I truly don't know if this need is a deeply wrong thing. I don't think so. Most artists have been incredibly obsessive about something. And I am. I don't have time to think about burnouts or if I need balance. No.
There is no way I will balance things out. When I run, I run until my legs burn and I can't walk for three days. Pacing it out feels stupid, feels wrong. I can only go fast enough until they burn.
I've been obsessed with reading about art. History, mostly. It's a fascinating topic, but what moved me the most was a section about prehistoric art.
The thought of these people living thousands of years ago—imagining them playing, dancing. I imagined the hands that painted and sculpted, the purpose, the idea. It's all incredibly fascinating. The paintings look like diaries, showing their daily lives in a language that anyone can understand.
I can't say it was since I was a kid, because I don't remember. But for as long as I can remember, I’ve had this difficulty with communication, with language. Writing feels more natural than talking. The sounds I make sound unnatural to me, tentative, like a toddler who hasn’t learned to properly walk.
With painting, it’s even easier. It seems like a language I never needed to learn. It feels natural. It's not easy, no, it never was. But it feels natural, conceptually, concretely. I cannot seem to find the right words; I always feel my tongue rolling up, like I am piloting a robot, like someone will snatch it from me.
But now, writing also feels good.
Even if it doesn’t make sense, it feels good.
And I think about them again, these old humans. These people, roaming nature, surviving, laughing, dying, living. I always felt like a pessimist, but, let's be honest, it's difficult to be an artist when you lose all hope. It's time to accept that in my true, deepest, and darkest nature, I still want to have it. Hope. I still want to believe in the human spirit, in its ingenuity, kindness, and prowess.
I couldn't be an artist otherwise.
And I know you couldn't be reading this if you were not kind.