My artistic endeavour has been dulled—and I mean this not in the negative connotation oft associated with the word but merely description—and become softer. And so has all my ambition. And while I still make strides and take leaps and try my hand at writing, all of it is strictly for my benefit, or perhaps, the benefit of those around me. For if I do not make a living, well, it goes without saying it will be somewhat difficult to live, and if I do not sit and write, I tend to become miserable. There is no other way to describe it.
To put it bluntly, I am a thorn in everyone’s side, I see the world with a lens bereft of any joy, and it becomes a chore to even talk to me. This is not unbeknownst to me. Perhaps, this is a repeated thought, and I have jotted it down somewhere in this body of work. If I have, I hope it was done with better words and more finesse. But I reminded myself of it again last week, and since then, I have made it a point to never cease my writing. And if life comes calling, I shall answer it, but then, I shall sit and write.
Retracing my steps to where I was before I embarked on this confession, everything I do is for my benefit, and this has not been some great artistic endeavour. The truth, if I may offer such a thing, is that it does not have to be. It simply is, like most things simply are. It is as much a part of the scenery of my life as a cup of coffee gone cold sitting on the shelf because I did not finish it in time. It is a sip taken regardless.