Why do you write?

The short answer is I must. 

A longer answer would be something akin to holding my ground with a splash of idealized nostalgia. At some point in my life someone must have spoken fondly on the subject matter. Or I read a Call of The Wild. Or I realized that my comic book heroes were awesome, but it was Stan Lee the whole time. 

Maybe I had a teacher make me realize that every story is a puzzle. That's what started the fire. Suppose becoming a good reader is the moment you can discern that good writing, maybe the best writing (maybe the writing I am after), is purposeless. Puzzles are effective purposelessness? 

That fictional books have this undercurrent in the story. What is fascinating to me is how much that undercurrent is the reader and how much (or little) that is intended by the writer. 

Outside of a few seminal pieces, it is unclear to me how many projects truly offer new perspectives. Unclear because I admittedly have read very few books from the best sellers list. It was never my interest to be one of those writers. At some point in my life, I actually considered being a best-selling author as merit of failure. In my youth I was highly critical and drew thicker lines. I had greater dreams for the future, but had less of a grasp on the present. 

I only ever wrote for my friends and family. It's shameful how many dynamics have fallen apart as a result of the writing I hoped would put things back together. 

There are universal themes that can be found in all forms of writing. Death, love, war, etc. 

And there are existential dilemnas of the moment. Reading fiction allows the reader to understand common frustrations that are embedded in what the writer is trying to provoke. This is the consequence of this career. To do it effectively you must invade the personal space of one's status quo. People tend to impose this disposition on you, but if you don't want something spicy then don't eat at my restaraunt. At this point, you can't be mad if you keep coming back for seconds. 

Something I find amusing is the way art or artistic movements contain a foresight that sometimes the artists themselves can grasp outside that specific form of expression. 

"What do you mean?"

"Why the fuck would I know? I said what I meant didn't I? Or maybe I meant the opposite of that? I wanted to write about writing then my dog lept at a possum and now I am writing about existentialism. That's not code but people will think it is code."

If I knew another way to say the way I say things then I'd say it. If I had an instruction manual to put it together for all of you, then I'd give it to you. But the same way you suprise yourself with your own stupidity; as do I. 

I find this gets exaggerated and becomes something common with most artists. This ability to be playful; bewildered by what you yourself are capable of. It's unclear what the source is; I worship that act. Of creating a message by dueling with the mysterious phenomenon of existence. That's my worship. This. What you are reading now and what you have read by me. It's unfortunate that my form of devotion comes at the consequence of provocativity. I can assure you if I could feed you happy meals I would, but the chef is demanding Michelen Star complexity and longing. I cannot gaurantee the results, but I can gaurantee two things that you cannot take from me. 

My work ethic. My ability to create conversation. 

But this is it for me. Suppose it looks different for each person, but my worship belongs to the internal reality's ability to reveal glimmers of hope typically enduced through the creative act by coincidentally and spontaneously engaging with the external. The creative act to me is a spiritual perserverance. To reveal how one's innocence has preserved itself within the understanding of a given moment. I suppose all the moments that encompass that moment as well. Without then there is no now. Without now there is no then. 

How can you intentionally be coincidental? I can hear my critic chirping. At some point, it becomes difficult to pinpoint. It dawned on me when I realized my solitude was conducive to a certain complexity of thought. This passion has made me a solitary man. 

I spend copius amounts of time in contemplative states of being. This doesn't inherently bother me. Writing is a beautiful vocation, but the consequences of my writing and my mistakes have made me irrevocably insufferable. These are the frayed scars of dancing with oblivion and euphoria. Disregarding the wonderfully brutal things I have endured. I must live with the fact that as a result of this pursuit people I loved have also endured the consequences of my actions. I do not know how responsible those individuals were or are in terms of "getting" theirs. From this seat of ignorance, I can only plea innocence and hope that someone out there recognizes these inflictions of punishment are not the result of fair and speedy trial with a jury of my peers. 

Putting me in a position of not knowing how much credence to give my sense of responsibility towards my obligation of accountability. The reality of my circumstances is that my vulnerability and transparency in my advocacy for mental health, while also being highly critical of warfare, monopolies, and power dynamics, has left me subject to copious amounts of psychological torture. 

One of the most complex challenges in being an artist is knowing how and when to take responsibilty. Attempting to engage with not only the universal, but the existential cries of the moment while also occupying your humanity amidsts a necessity of validation, but an inability to be the center of attention. A hint of reclusiveness and you have someone in my particular situation. Being walked all over by the rich. My slingshot are prose. Needless to say I am at a point in my writing career where I need to branch out from my self-reliant idealization of a good life, in order to give voice to my writing, address concerns, and discover avenues of clarity and closure as to what are the ways my writing has affected others. 

But, why writing? Why write? Why continue to pursue this rapidly dying medium? Especially when considering how many forms of expression I am priviledged to have. 

For starters I am educated. In a traditional and untraditional sense. A student of a wide variety of jobs. A student in academic settings. A student of the art game. A student of political power dynamics. And I have been a student of the streets as well. Admittedly, not always a passing student, but a student nonetheless. 

Admittedly, my greatest teacher has been adrenaline. You'd think I am referring to the moment of impact, but adrenaline is the lesson. It is only when she takes on time and becomes retrospect that wise teacher. 

So, I write because in my freshman year of High School I made a promise to myself. I will teach my brothers the lessons that nobody taught me. Let them learn from my mistakes, type shit. 

I have learned so much. When you seek; you will find great mentors. I've also had the pleasure of reading some of the greatest literature there is. You'd think my advantage over Melville is that he never got to listen to Charlie Parker, but my advantage over Melville is that he never read Melville. 

He is a synthesis of moments and study. I get to be with that synthesis in a way that a reader of my work gets to sit with mine. Including the synthesis of art and artists I have engaged with as well. Even if you never read a piece you may incidentally read it's sentiments through the writing of another. 

One of the many reasons I persist in a medium of expression that is rapidly dying is because it is the oldest form of human expression we have. And when you read enough you begin to understand that books are in conversation with themself. Aristotle speaks to Cervantes who speaks to Dostoyevsky who inspires Baldwin who is critical of Aristotle. Not directly of course. 

So, first reason---I must. 

Second reason---Sentimentality.

Third reason---perspective. 

Fourth reason---

At some point along my studies, I drew the conclusion that knowledge is nothing more than a responsibility. "To know" something is to owe an obligation to some universal truth that we all strive for, but cannot achieve. Maybe the point is that there is no point. That the universal goal of existence, the bliss of our subjective ambitions, is that we are born into irony. 

That the source of all that we are is an inconceivable nothingness (pre-birth. In commune with something other than just the self.) only to be born into a vessel condemned to be aware of their own mortality. Provoking a fear of a return to the very nothingness we long to return to. Never recognizing the fact that we long for what we fear. Not that we long to die, but our very will to live is in the pursuit of some reality which we do not know we remember. Or I am wrong. 

I am not a writer to evoke an existential crisis, though they are often the case. These moments are merely happen stance; awakening to new ideas can be abrasive and violent. Healing hurts and all that fun jazz. 

If the writer has any responsibility to the reader (I am uncertain that they do), then it is to make you believe that there is a reason to the burden of your brief spell of somethinghood; this jolt of consciousness between nothing and nothing). But there is no reason. No hidden message. Everything just is. 

This has me returning to the two general standards of writing that can be imposed upon interpretation. Where is the author choosing to shine light and where they are not. Some bring things to the surface via distraction. The other does so by awakening. I do not know how much you choose when you set out to write. My style of writing is similar to my paintings in the fact that they are self-taught forms of expressionism.

Amidst this expressive style, I have somewhat completely disregarded the sentiments of interpretation. My muse isn't typically thrilling though my life can be thrilling. I just am not interested in telling stories of excitment. For some reason, I gravitate towards the mundane aspects of existence. Perhaps it is there we find a common advocacy for a misplaced human identity. I am bored. I am tired. I struggle with depression because life can be depressing. I struggle with loneliness because life can be lonesome. No matter who I speak to we can all agree on this matter. Not that life is only struggle, but that the struggles of life are all of ours to bear. 

Maybe all the reasons can be summed up in that one sentiment. I write to survive. Indirectly acknowledging the presence of the reader by exploring the purposelessly probable. While simultaneously personifying or exaggerating the nuances and complexitites of questions that have no answers. Even in my moments of self-advocacy or advocacy of others; there is a breath of fatigue. 

And yet, that is where art, writing, and/or presence, is an ultimate form of resistance. It is a declaration that in the face of life's most profound existential questions there is a refusal to submit. Even though the result will undeniably be defeat. 

When considering the sentiments of progress (what is progress? How can progress be inclusive? How can it be enviormentally conscious?) the only humanitarian solution I can discern is one akin to anarchism. Not the anarchism we saw in the protests of 2020 and the insurrection of January 6th. Or the countless human rights violations we have normalized through dissumlation. 

But authentic anarchism. How I have come to understand this authentic form of anarchism is allowing the moral imperative that guides your decision-making on challenges in which you will surely fail. 

As generative AI booms, I am undeniably the last of a dying breed. The more I contribute the more my data will be mined. And yet this literary tradition is the oldest of human traditions. There is a reason it is protected as our FIRST constitutional right. 

So, I write. And I write. And I write. All words they say. But they talk. 

I do loathe the idea of establishing a specific message to my art, but these are the sentiments I think of when I think why. Though if you asked me why I do anything, then I'd tell you it's because we need to make decisions with the next seven generations in mind. 

It is unfortunate that this creative act is perceived as a gift by so many others. It is a plague to me. It has cost me any and all sentiments of legitimacy; I have nothing to show for it. 

But if I stop I will die. If I continue I will die. I want to live. If I am going to suffer, then I will be the agent of my suffering. All I have is my knowledge, and even then I live as a hermit; perpetually forgetting what I know.

What I do know is that my attainment of that knowledge is a privilege. And when I think about what knowledge even is my conclusion isn't a data bank of facts, but a responsibility. Leading me to the conclusion that how I engage with my responsibility will determine the nature of my suffering. 

Liberation theology. 

Who is my audience? I don't know. I'll just write honestly in hopes that the right people find what I am trying to do. 

To revisit the first reason, I must. Though I have talked about this indirectly throughout, I'd like to flesh out a final thought. I'd like to say this tireless fight to be the creative that I am is because, "I am who I am, maaaan." (exhales bong rip), but I fear I am too petty of a bitch for that. Let one thing be abundantly clear. I don't give up because I am obligated by responsibility and ambition. Or because I am a dreamer. Maybe there is a void I am trying to fill. Maybe there isn't. It doesn't fucking matter. 

I wake up everyday and see an uphill battle that I am in fucking love with. Cocksure I will overcome every fucking challenge that comes my way because I have too many mother fuckers to silence. Too many people have told me I can't. Too many people have told me I shouldn't. Too many people have tried to stop me. I have heard and received every insult. More critiques than compliments. I must because something is wrong. I must because I fear I am being silenced. If history has taught me anything it is exactly in the space I occupy that I must rise up. 

I write because I am not supposed to. 

fart

 

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