21st
how can i be this?
I’m thinking about the determination it takes to be something - be defined by something that you do: A writer, an artist, an academic. The force of will, the tenacity it must take to push yourself out at the world, constantly asserting, constantly claiming. but not just to the world, to yourself: this is my meaning, this is the lens through which i am to be read. I am an artist and I make art, everyday, this is my purpose and the answer to the question I pose.
“art is why i get up in the morning, but my definition ends there, you know, it doesn’t seem fair: I’m living for something I can’t even define, and there you are right there in the mean-time”
I used to think, of course, but now I don’t know. What if the mean-times are the only times? What if art isn’t why I get up? Why do I get up?
