I don’t even know why you would read this

Whether it’s procrastination or lust for easily available trash or maybe it’s “destiny” that you find this or probably you’re one of my friends whose reading this because I forced you to by sending you a whats-app link.Probably the last one. But if you are, on this website at whatever time wherever in this universe and you consider writing a passion a hobby a life line or a way of life I want you to ask yourself ‘are you an artist?’.

If the answer to that is no.

Then please stop reading because you won’t understand the painful gibberish I’m out to extricate from my soul after long hours of trying to spew all my venomous disregard for society into this jumbled up piece of fucked up caricature. Where I draw a well thought of head but the body is nothing more than a dangling stick insect about to fall off from the pages you’re reading this from.

What?

Exactly, what? You’re not an artist. You won’t understand why  choose to blurt out random incoherent thoughts to strangers on this random website when I have better work to do such as calculus which happens to be the only reason I got through a first year in a major I never wanted to study. Which reminds me you won’t understand what it’s like to be peeled off from twenty first century because your abstractness cannot be solved by mathematics and algorithms. Both of which you may actually be good at but never feel the best at because all you’ve ever known in your life is being complicated

Because you choose to be complicated. But you’re not an artist are you? You are just complicated thoughts. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like you’re a gigantic black splat on sheets of snow. Like a string in  hand stitched quilt pattern slightly out of line. Like a mistake you like being but don’t enjoy being.Why is it that I stare at blank walls wanting them to be painted by something when I can’t paint and I watch my silent mute mind speak and pretend it’s mute. Or why s it that it’s mute at the wrong times. Or why is it that when  feel most strongly it decides to shut up? Why is it that I don’t say I’m fine anymore so no one can have the luxury of saying we never knew that there was something wrong with her.

If you’re not an artist and you’ve read this far please tell me what is it like? To be fine? To see a whirlwind of emotions in front of you and feel them instead of just watching them chaotically strut about in their piercing heels but never ever ever feel them. God forbid there bed anything but a lunging emptiness in your heart that throttles you and makes you scream. What is that like? To not have bouts of creative insanity and bouts of self loathing deprecating urges of murderous doom?

Funny. You’re not an artist. You probably won’t be able to tell me how you feel because you feel normal. And normal doesn’t make for god conversation. But I would love to have a conversation on your normalcy. I know, you’re not supposed to understand. You’re not an artist.

I once read that Virginia Woolf never wanted to get help for her mind sacred that it would sacrifice her creative mind. A sacrifice she wasn’t willing to make. I once read that she jumped out of  a window to kill herself. I once read that she thought bees spoke to her. What’s funny is that it made me laugh. She wasn’t particularly fearful of religion either. But her writing was to big a sacrifice.

Sigh. If you’re not an artist you won’t be able to relate.

But I am because if I’m going to be bat-shit crazy I’d rather do it with style.

Side note:This is 59 facts about Virginia Woolf you’ll be surprised how relatable I find her.

Also I can’t help but think maybe a lot of artists can’t relate to me too.

 

 

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