Writing does not come easy. When it does, it is at the most inconvenient of times. However much you do make note of things, it doesn’t work. You can’t seem to relive that moment of supreme artistry. The latter sentence was highly influenced by a lot of things besides my lack of modesty.
As a student of English, I learn about the artistic burden, the artist’s need to speak honestly and be truthful especially in the context beauty, truth, art and so on that seem to have gained blurred visions since poststructuralist days.
But honesty does not come easy. Honesty, like respect, in my opinion must be earned. But then, I ain’t Ms Fancy-Pants either and my honesty is not important to the growth of this artistic world. Recent movies and people who speak in class then contradict this with the sentiment of one’s contribution being a drop in an ocean and the ocean comprising many many drops of water.
To add to the list of excuses of averting honesty, we have a constant notion of, “What would people think of me?” No matter how hard we try to join the fad of being a social outcast, those of us who try too hard eventually end up becoming conformists and right-wing political activists. On the same lines, that’s when you begin to say: fuck environmentalism.
You begin to keep posts too blatantly honest in a password protected document hoping that it will be published posthumously. Or when you become a famous author and have the liberty of making any writing a best seller.
To a realist, this is the only sort of bubble we enjoy indulging in. It is also the host of excuses we give to keep ourselves from speaking the truth.