Ramble on a scrap of paper. Part 2

Everyone writes about love for the sake of writing about it. Love tends to be a subject which inspires some sort of reaction. Whether the reaction includes flushed cheeks or a groan of cynical rejection is arbitrary.

Artists - of whose group I do not wish to be included in - feed off attention. If one is to assume that we are all artistic, then this attention-seeking is also to be attributed to every single one of us, no?

If so then what about the quiet ones? If good guys always finish last, could it be that they genuinely don't give a fuck?

This is without assuming that an artist can never be an introvert, or rather that an artist does not require love.

I believe I have just found a paradox within my rambling.

If an artist does it for attention and approval, which in turn feeds and clothes him, then how can one explain introverted artists?

I believe the answer lies somewhere within the dichotomy of the artist as a normal person, and the person communicating via their chosen medium of expression.

These two distinct personalities can always make AND break anybody simultaneously.

Think of all the drug abuse and inanities that artists are known for throughout history.

The personality of the artist could be trying to take over from the introverted personality which the person exhibited before he found his craft.

Now the person is entirely unhappy and the only way to reconcile the two is to try to numb the feeling of the gaping metaphoric wound caused by the rift.

When someone tells me about wanting to be some sort of artist, I have two distinct reactions which tend to fight to get out at the same time.

1) "That's great! Follow your heart and see where it leads you!"

2) "Run."

I figure those are my two - or rather, two of my - personalities. On one hand I want the person to success. Who knows, maybe the next Hendrix is just around the corner.

The other reaction comes from my years of struggle for minuscule success and even this marginal victory is negligible.

Bottom line, art is work. Love is pain. Work and pain are all we have to look forward to is we are to have marginal success.

It's worth it.

The Lucky

The first to be picked, yet the last to be smoked.

It is lucky because it is initially spared the fire.

In the end it is lucky because after seeing all the others burn, it doesn't want to be left behind.

Perhaps it is lucky because it is the final cigarette I will smoke. Until the next one.

Perhaps it will be the one to ultimately lead to my lucky breath.

In the end, it is lucky for the brand. Once it finishes, I have to buy another packet.

Thus the cycle returns to its starting point.





[I have decided to start posting even the random rambling writings I occasionally produce and keep to myself. I have plenty of those, you see?]