Nobody Read This!

Thus spake the God of his own mind to the masses imaginative!

Really, nobody reads this blog anyway, so there's no command I can be more certain of people obeying. Yeah, it makes me feel like a big man, alright? Whatever, you're still not listening.

I just had a coffee with a friend at work who feels his best writing is already behind him. He's about 30 years old and feels creatively burned out. Yes, yes, this happens to artists and laypeople alike, but isn't it always just a little bit sad when a person willfully kisses goodbye his or her imagination?

No, it's not, you universalistic simpleton (who ever you aren't). That would be the easy answer. If you had cared to probe more deeply into his situation, you would know that he also feels his best writing was a direct result of being depressed. So, allow me to rephrase:

Isn't it always just a little bit sad when a person willfully kisses goodbye his or her depression?

If you say "no" here, I'll accept it as a valid, albeit half-assed, answer. It shouldn't always be sad to leave behind depression, even if it did pump one's creative juices for a time. If you're happy, fuck art! So the theory goes anyway. It makes sense to me, in principle at least.

For me though, a lack of artistry is one of the things that fuels my discontent (fine, call it depression if you want, you non-existent, glib-speaking blackguard). The rest of life, so far as I can see it, is never fully ambrosia, nor ever fully shit. Even if 99.99% of the germs in my life are killed by some cosmic Lysol, I'll always have my artistic discontent to keep me writing... even if it is intermittent and pointless.

Will you just shut up already? Yes, all of you, you invisible and silently critical bastards.