“It’s funny that we became quarantine buddies.” Funny? Is it funny? I think it’s a fucking miracle. I can’t think of anyone else I would want to spend my time with right now. That makes me think of the kind of life I lead in London. Who do I really like here? Who is my real friend? I miss the freedom of choice but I realise that I’ve never had to make a choice, I just go solo by default. Am I free by default?
I don’t have to make excuses to have my alone time, because the world stepped into my realm of solitude and story writing, and when not much around you is happening, you better make sure your inner Universe is thick and overwhelming. When everyone I know found themselves where I stand twenty four seven, I felt almost violated, too much noise, making special that alone time they’ve never wanted, it felt like sharing my bed with my rapist and he was stealing the blanket. Dark, I know.
Not a nice feeling to have at night. The whole humanity is going through something and I can’t empathise. I guess it’s because everywhere I look now, I see myself reflected in people’s procrastination and loneliness and it’s time to deal with that shit.
But when I look at you there is some resolution and calmness, I see that side of me I really like, the entity that makes a lot of questions and finds the answers in the action.
“Whatever,” I say. “Yeah exactly,” you reply enthusiastically, as if I cracked the enigma code. Where is all this snobbishness coming from? But most importantly, why do I like it so much? I haven’t studied arts as much and I’ve no intention to go all banana academic about it now, I just want to create, but it doesn’t come to me without knowledge, and sweat and tears, mistakes and achievements I’ve never appreciated. There is a deep deep understanding of what my art is and what it means to me, to the point that I find it ephemeral and completely pointless. I hate the pretentiousness and forced meaning. Sometimes I take photos of people just because it feels amazing, no other meaning, and yet I have to write a fucking essay and invent some shit in order to place the project in a magazine. And I know I’ll have to do that over and over again because I want to place my photos in a gallery, so that people can wonder what the fuck all that means, and some real artist will stand in front of a photo and think “wow, I’d wank to that and regret nothing”. I want to sell feelings because I have too many and I still have to pay for a roof above my head. Win win.
These fucking false epiphanies people have all the time. All these answers whispered by the pure aesthetic gratification of an achievement. Feel the art with your eyes closed after sex... you don’t need it anymore, and that’s the whole fucking point.
The time spent with you made me realise that the destination really doesn’t matter, and the journey doesn’t have to mean anything either, it can be purely pleasurable and that’s a meaning in itself and I don’t have to use that inspiration to create art. Art is and nothing’s going to change that as long as I am, too.
Less than forty eight hours of no filters with you and I am in my raw form again. I don’t remember when I was like this the last time but I know it happened before. I think the society is a shitty construct and whoever tries to get out of it is contributing to that illusion of freedom that the pretentious artists seem to have. Are pretentious artists still artists? Or are they just using the tools of art to get somewhere? I know I don’t use art anymore. I am art, that’s why I feel like everyone is using me all the time. And I am ok with that because now I know the Universe will never run out of me.
Arrogant. I know. And yet, here you are, wanting more. I’ve no shame... but so much grace.
