I forget myself regularly

So often life finds a way of making you forget who you are and why you do the things you do. I have experienced this so many times in my short life on earth. The on thing I regret forgetting the most is not myself or whatever delusions I have had of my true self. There one thing I regret is forgetting why I write. I forgot why each day I sit in front of my computer and look on the unyielding expanse that is an un-typed page waiting for writers to write. I think the same can be said of a piece of canvas waiting for a brush stroke to will it into being..

For such a long time I have taught myself to live without emotion. To push down and ignore whatever aches or twinges my emotional self feels. I did all of this under the delusion that it made me a better man. That can be argued but what is immutable is the simple fact it made me less of a human and artist. In the end art is life lived intentionally. Without emotion to guide us, how can there be intent?

I practice my art, writing, because I feel a profound sense of loneliness. I have a sense of not being understood, and I wonder if that is not the original curse of being human. We live, see and interact with each other but do we ever truly know each other? Can we ever really empathize or put ourselves in someone else’s shoes?

This is where art steps in. We as writers, painters, and all other forms of art are there to show a part of ourselves. We show a part of the multi-verse that every single conscious being is part of. And like all universes in creation, we touch but we don’t ever truly interact. We project our thoughts through speech and action but there is no real way to understand what the other is truly feeling or their intentions.

\

I write because I want to touch people, persons, anyone. Even a single person having read my work and walking away with a feeling of understanding me better is all I ask. Tonight I watched a show, one which many may pan, but having followed the show from its first episode to its last. It touched a chord in me. I was in tears watching an ancient vampire sacrifice himself for his family. It touched that chord of loneliness once more. That ache we all have to connect with someone whether father, mother, brothers or in my case all three. That is when I remembered why I write.

I write so as to stir in people emotions that may have been scorched clean from years of neglect, distrust or downright hatred. As an artist, and it took me decades to actually take on this label. That is my solemn duty. To be truthful about who I am, so others may take heed and be truthful in their lives. This is how emotional revolutions begin. Not with dissatisfaction but with find like souls, who say I too fell the same as you, I too am shrunken by the weight of being human in an inhuman world. That is all I have ever wanted, to hear my thoughts echoed in someone else’s words and deeds.