Talking To Myself: A Rant

Writing poetry is simply magic. The feeling of crafting a poem is unbeatable and the catharsis is ironically beyond words. However, being so open and vulnerable putting your work into the world can be almost embarrassing. It’s freeing, but also uncomfortable. However, much worse than that, much more embarrassing is sending a poem into the world and no one acknowledges it, let alone reads it. A pin drops. Radio silence. No one cares. You’ve opened and bared your soul to the world, except no one noticed.

What is the purpose of art? Is it that cathartic spark and unbelievable high of creation or is it self-expression? A little of both, I would say. The catharsis of creation is a feeling like none other, but if that was the sole purpose of art one would be satisfied to stop there. Some people can do that, some can’t… I can’t. There is always that need to push that piece of art out into the world. If you are expressing yourself that implies you are expressing yourself to someone. So, then the reader is crucial, otherwise you are just talking to yourself. And again, that is enough for some people.

In short, if the point of art is indeed self-expression then there is a need for an audience. And if the audience isn’t listening then you are talking to yourself. That depresses me. That hurts me on a molecular level. It hurts because you are putting yourself out there and no one really cares. My writing as fragmented, as weird, as experimental as it may be at times is personal. It may not always be obvious, it may be symbolic, but I am putting myself out there in a very, very personal way.

Does it matter? Is the reader crucial? After all, most artists will create regardless, sometimes not even because of want but because of necessity. But again, if that was truly enough, we would stop there. Why then is there the innate need to send our art into the world? Is it because no one wants to talk to themselves? Is it a desire to be something greater than what we are? I have hinged my entire being, my entire worth, on being a writer… not just someone who writes. But the label: WRITER. If I am not that then what am I? I am aware that is not healthy, and even a lifetime of meditating and studying Buddhism can’t stop me from clinging to that label… that identity I have created for myself. It’s a sickness and I am a junky.

One could say the poetry scene is a literary circle jerk more dependent on connections and social networking than talent. That’s part of it, sure, and that’s the easier pill to swallow. Really though, if anyone to blame it is I for believing anyone would care. It’s even more likely my fault for not crafting poetry or prose good enough to demand attention. I’ve been far surpassed by my peers, and they deserve all the success they receive because making any strides in the arts is tough as hell. But maybe I should stop deluding myself with the lie that they are better at socializing and networking than me… and maybe come to terms with the fact that they are simply much better writers and sound artists, and I am just not as fucking good as I thought I was.

I doubt I’ll ever stop writing or making sound, but I increasingly don’t see the purpose in publishing. Yet here I am hypocritically publishing this rant to my blog. The thing is I need to get it out, and the only reason I am comfortable enough to post it here and be so open and honest is simply because no one is going to read it anyway.

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