“It doesn’t need to be perfect”—OK, but what about me?
Today I will be talking about confusion’s relation to creativity, and why it matters that I’m confused: because I don’t believe myself worthy of love.
I am pretty sure that’s why any of us bother, in a way.
To be an artist is to deal in becoming, not being, and to be fixated on becoming is to not be satisfied with being. Art derives from life, a kind of—
No, actually, I’m cutting that thought off.
I am furiously angry today, and I only partly understand why.
The first is that my endeavors here seem to be going fucking nowhere, though I probably haven’t done a good job of them. The latter is probably some blend of sexual frustration, entitlement and plain exasperation at just how hard it is to make something good.
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