February 1, 2021•240 words
The sad truth about art is that it is a kind of death and quite often a suicide. We think that artists are gifted to see the world a certain special way but this isn't true. Artists are only those foolish enough to share their inner worlds with the rest of us and undergo the inevitable annihilation. They are martyrs of culture.
The majority of us live in completely isolated worlds. This is not due to our inability to reach a consensus or to meet each other on common ground but our unwillingness to do so, borne of the fear that others may be a little too much like us. We would rather pretend that we are something different to what we are and allow others their illusions so long as they allow us ours (athough sometimes we're not so courteous). We relate to each other through our respective facades, denying in others what we cannot come to terms with in ourselves. We complain of loneliness but this is just a bluff; loneliness is a sacred fetish that we will not give up lest we lose our identity. We will not even admit what honesty truly means because, deep down, we recognize it as a weakness, as a fundamental threat to our individual egos. So we choose to live out our lives in this isolation all the while pretending otherwise and feigning a sense of otherness towards our own nature.