L’artiste n’existe pas
Lately, I cannot seem to stop thinking, my mind won’t shut up.
Questioning everything. It has led me to a series of conclusions which I could never fully explain or lay out in their entirety, at least not in a blog post such as this is.
Some days I feel as if I were about to lose my mind; The more I understand about life, the more I discover, the “freer” I become from society’s oppression, have led me to this state; most days are a haze. I am a constantly changing personality, and I do not believe in anything anymore. What is reality, in truth? What is truth, even? What is art, what is love, what is passion.
I have come a personal conclusion that Nothing really exists, we invented it all, we gave it a name, we categorized it, labeled it, enclosed it in a box. This is the box in which we are all born into. And so, art does not exist, neither does the artist. An “artist” is just another label. Justifications. A lot of people see things like this: People who call themselves “artists” are excused from certain attitudes or “disorders” (if you will), like depression, anxieties, paranoia, general insanity, etc., because they are “an artist”. These kinds of things are not inherent to the artist, nor does he need them to be able to produce. “Art” (or whatever it is), should cease to be judged upon or “valued” because of content or aesthetics. The thing itself has no real meaning.
I wish I could shut my mind off.