I will not lie to you…
The following post is just a confession. Nothing but a confession. Not a confession you’d expect, but one that would make sense. As long as you continue to read, you will start to understand that what you are about to read and the confession I am about to make, is going to make sense…
It is nothing new.
I you could have guessed this already.
I have told you some of this.
As long as I have been alive I have struggled to be understood, or when I was understood, I struggled to find much acceptance. This is both bad and good. Bad, because it does affect your psyche to be told no. Good, it makes you work hard to better yourself and your arguments. As some things might have sense to you, but if you don’t know how to explain them or express them, it’s going to create problems. And as I have told you, it is a reason, one of many, I started this here blog. It was not just to let out the thoughts and voices I had in my head and get something off my chest. But it was in a way therapy. Therapy I couldn’t afford. So, if you want less people like me to think they’re writers, having mental health professionals at hand for everyone would help. Who knows how many authors and writers less would we have today if we actually cared for mental health care for all…
But, all this writing is also a symptom of this world. We create a violent world which pushes us inward. Thus our apprehension when it comes to honesty and honestly presenting ourselves outwards to people. And in a world of weirdos, pushing people to try to stick to the norm, is quite confusing. So as I write this, I feel an urge to be as weird as possible, but while this is not my confession, I do think this world creating such restrains when it comes to anything we do, that doesn’t harm someone, is bad. Maybe a reason why I do what I do when it comes to writing and trying to stick out of the norm, when there is barely any norm, no matter what category someone will invent to put any art into its little box. And this bad can be seen in formulaic content, low hanging fruit that can be easily consumed and the leisurely walk to the bottom as season 3 of MILF Manor hits Netflix. We do not accept each other, we can’t accept ourselves, yet we celebrate the outstanding.
So it all feel arbitrary to me. We have no real values to what we do, when we do it, why we decide to do it. Yet, at the same time we pretend we have some moral authority and standard over art. My art is bad because my art isn’t how art should be. Your art is better because it sells more than me. But are those really things that matter? Even if we talk about impact in history, there are authors that were best sellers during their life times and are all but forgotten. At the same time there are so many authors simply forgotten that made no impact. You can not tell, nor will you ever be able to tell in your lifetime the impact you have, in a hundred years, or in our forever history. So why should I look more than just once at what I write here? Why should I do more than what I have been doing? I have brewed these thoughts to hell and back. I did not just open my laptop and start writing this only to the pleasure or displeasure of someone. I have edited these feelings to the point of nauseum. And while structurally, yes, I could do better. What does it matter? If you can’t tell this apart from Rebel Moon or anything written with AI that has 4.5 stars on Amazon, what’s the point?
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