I’ve never had any patience with the whole tortured artist thing. And now I am one. But as it turns out torture isn’t exactly the right word, it’s more like ‘itchy’ (but ‘the itchy artist’ doesn’t sound as good).
Survival is our ultimate skill, our ultimate goal and our ultimate curse. It is the most powerful instinct we have. It can turn the meek into indiscriminate killers, acting out of fear. It can drive otherwise loving and rational folk to protect their religions at any cost. It can force those people who identify strongly with their social status, to corporate crime.
Let’s say that there is a God, he of the bible who smites cities, he of the old testament who drowns armies in seas. I understand why he might do such things, without compassion or a twinge of remorse. We are his spirit of imagination; breathed life into us, and so, he creates, kills and destroys – just for fun. And then watches how we evolve. If he doesn’t like it well hey, there’s always a plague of locusts he can send in chapter three. He can press his delete key at any moment because what he gives, he can also take away. Or can he?
Why after all this time do I still have that voice in my head? If I’m to hazard a guess, it’s because it makes me feel safe. It’s because just in case people do not like my work, I haven’t set my expectations too high and my identity tied with my achievements, will not be destroyed.
Some people assume that if I have no hesitation in broadcasting intimate details of my so-called private life, my behaviour will support that assumed intimacy through further action. So if I talk openly about sex, some men assume I am ‘up for it.’
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