There are so many ideas in my head and I know that there is a way to make them beautiful.
There are so many theories in my head about who I am,
so many versions of me, an artist -a writer mostly- but an artist that can become a craftsman in whatever form he pleases.
I just have to put my mind into it,
I just have to give enough of myself and I will get something in return.
It took me so many years just to write one good sentence, it took me so many tries until I took a picture that was even half decent and I can’t still draw a decent line, but I believe I will be able to, one day. If I give enough of myself.
I don’t like talking about what it means to be an artist.
The subject frankly bores the shit out of me. Just create and if you can’t, shut up and try anyway.
But I feel like I’m forced to write this because I’m feeling empty again.
I feel like I’m a failure again.
Nothing comes out, suddenly all my ideas are gone and anything I hate everything I put on paper.
Perhaps it’s just another chemical balance. Perhaps that’s all that art is: a chemical imbalance.
I’m riding waves of over-confidence: suddenly I am able to do something special, suddenly I am worth to be seen by millions of other lonely people who are trying to make sense of their existence.
I’m riding waves of self-deprecation. I’m just a poser. Anytime I get to someplace real, I lose the moment. I have no discipline. I don’t have the necessary patience. I’m not doing this for the right reasons. I want to be like someone, I don’t want to be like me and you can’t be an artist if you don’t really want to be you. Or maybe it’s the other way around, I don’t know.
There are so many ideas in my head and many of them are gone. I have attempted to bring to live many of them, but I haven’t done many, if any, of them justice. Now they are in the void. They spoke something real in the moment and if I tapped into, I could have created something special. It’s too late now. It’s gone. You move on to the next project.
There are so many ideas in my head and no matter how many advices I seek from the masters, none of them have the answer. You can’t go to school to learn this. You can’t read it from books. You have to do it yourself. It’s that what makes it special.
There are so many theories about who I am.
Maybe I’m all of them, maybe I’m one of them. It changes depending on the chemicals on my brain. I just want to know who I am when I go out there.
It’s very scary there. They tell me I have nothing to worry about. They tell me I’m healthy and I’ve got many, many years.
And even if I don’t, there’s a life after this one, or so they say.
But nobody really knows and when they realize this,
I want to be there, to capture it.
And when you see it, when you see what I’ve created out of your moment,
I hope you will love me.
I hope I will still stay in your mind for a while, that you will carry me home
and tell your friends all about me.