(This piece is not meant to be read. It is just an archive of fuzzy thoughts. Please skip this post.)
Artists are supposed to be selfish. They should be. Must be, if I may go to that extent to say this. You see artists either feel too much or think too much or worse... they feel and think too much. Simultaneously. And the only outlet (something like catharsis) is by creation that caters to their own emotion. Only their emotion and/or thoughts. Because as such artists are wired a bit different, apparently. Of course the degree might vary. Reflecting their own state of being is therefore the obvious way, which most artists do beautifully.
But what if you can't. No, actually you can but you just won't. It feels to you as if you shouldn't... almost like you are physically incapable of that. Every cell of your existence tells you that there are other emotions or thoughts that deserve that outlet more.
If there is just one way, however teeny tiny and insignificant it may be, do you not owe it to the world of other emotions!? To everything else. Isn't their happiness and beings worth more, much much more. And if one soul, just one soul can benefit from it, for making a better day or even a better moment, shouldn't representing that be the priority.
Your own reflections are nothing. You can hide that, like an Obscurus in an Obscurial, even if that ends up destroying your very existence. However, if you do that, are you even an artist? Can you even be called that? Because there's no you in whatever you make. It might be just you-flavored but not you in the true sense.
The greater good may still seem viable and you may decide to let go off the you in you. But not completely. You still levitate towards finding yourself on unknown paths...where you have wandered off to... find the you that was let off, long ago, consciously for whatever reason. And you hark yourself back, realising that every attempt of getting back on that conscious decision is taking back the you into unknown depths of nothingness.
It makes sense somehow even if it does not sometime. You never were an artist to begin with. You never were anything. The creations were never yours, they were just dreams. Literal dreams. How can you claim the dreams? How can you claim something whose existence is questionable and at very best ethereal?
You wonder is it the you that was lost screaming words of escape from a dimension that is still incomprehensible? It seems far fetched and you drop that idea yet again. How can you, even if for a moment, let that idea lurk in? Despite what few of your near ones might say, you were never an artist. You know that through every inch of your being. They had an obligation. Much like you do towards your own feelings. But they have always felt so insignificant when seen in contrast to the greater dimensions.
Sometimes, they randomly peek into the creation of your dreams. And that's when the need comes to mask it, and guard it with a Fort Knox like simulation. And you do that, with a hope that nobody gets it. But like a betraying glow worm, it still flies into the darkness hoping that somebody would. But why should anyone? Irrespective of the obvious Love that you have, it still stands without any merit. Nothing could deny that. And every praise gives an impression of scurrying rain drops piercing against the windshield, determined to shatter them to pieces.
Yet you embarrassingly enough move against the rain drops. You never realized that going against the raindrops was as wrong (or unacceptable) as anything ever could be. No, you knew. But you still decided not to know.
The artists moved with the raindrops...to reach the earth. And you stupidly drove in the opposite direction in search of a reclusive soul who might need the healing from your wounds. And thus you carved words of healing rather than that of the wounds that you battle with, still unknown.
You kept on searching without even knowing if there was ever such a soul. And if there ever will be. If there will be a heart that found the words that were there and those too that weren't. And maybe, just maybe, found the brief moment of a relaxing haunt that you have always wished for. And for that dream, for that wish, you kept going on. Still.
