Art in The Dancing Plague of the 2020s

I sit to write, and then, I ask myself once again whether there is a point to it all. The world has run amok with the unwritten memo that everyone must perform. Corporations have perpetuated this idea, and everyone else seems to have taken it in earnest. I fail to understand why, but then, the mentality of crowds has always washed over me. The bottom line is: to be anything today, you must perform and entertain.

The intrinsic value of work is now reduced to a tone-deaf regurgitation of latching onto a trend and performing. If you cannot do it, well, you are not a writer, an architect, a painter, or what have you. People with little skill, too much time on their hands, and a really loud disposition have taken over the world. It is the end of the placid, the reflective, and if you do not like it, well, good luck to you. Trying to be exceptional is not even an afterthought; it is not even required. It is an ancient pursuit, some forbidden magic.

I do not have any qualms with how people do things, but we must put our foot down when push comes to shove, when it comes to your door. I am not a performer; no, I am a writer. The writing is far too vital for me to divert from it. The world can dance to its own tunes and succumb to its pressures. There are bills to pay, words to write, and a life to live. All that leaves little time for me to dance on my own; dancing for the world, then, is out of the question.

Maybe I am foolish, but I still think there is merit in merit, that goodness is a measure in itself. If anything is good, it is eventually noticed without you flailing and flapping your arms, selling your soul, or worse, your time. Maybe I am naive, but that your work is noticed during your life or after is irrelevant as long as you put your mind, your soul, your heart into it. Maybe I am wrong, but I do not want to be right.

If you ask me, you should write so long as one person is ardently reading your work, and if they stop, you continue writing still. The rest is as the rest happens. He was foolish; they might say when you die. You will not be here to hear it. The work, however, will remain.

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