March 22nd 2021

March 22nd 2021

First Entry

As I sit trying to pin down my streams of consciousness, I’m struck by a sort of mental paralysis. Am I writing because I want to, or because I am trying to? Why write anything at all? As it is with any passion, one must scrutinize the motivation. We are all born with interests that compel us to explore and cultivate them. To deny them is to deny life itself. But should you throw yourself with reckless abandonment into what moves you? We’ve grown accustomed to exalting artists that lose themselves in their work, and rightfully so. But what was driving that fire, and was it completely all their own? To be wholly dedicated to your craft as to be all-consumed seems to be a noble enough pursuit, but in those moments of mental exhaustion, there lies a question that can’t be ignored: when does it cease being a passion, and when does it become a burden? When is the exact moment something once thought of as liberation becomes what shackles you?

A child paints a flower.

 That same child, now an adult,

 doesn’t think the colors 

are as bright as they used to be. 

Being human, we implicitly seem to yearn for recognition. Just as soon as we become proficient at something, we want the world to know it. Regardless of the individual relationship we have with our talents, we seek outside approval because it’s a form of validation we can never give to ourselves. And once we are recognized, we risk it becoming all-consuming. I’m unable to definitively assess the value this dynamic creates, but I do know it changes the composition of our motivations. Recognition creates expectations that can color the creative process. What you create for yourself is always more authentic than what you ultimately share with the world. Now when I use the word “authentic”, I don’t mean to judge the better of the two, but “authentic” meaning creation before the opinions of others were considered. How is one to reconcile with these seemingly opposed positions? 

A man plays his guitar to a crowd,

wondering to himself

when the strings became so dull.

At times I find myself doing things as though the world is watching. As silly as that may be, where is the illusion coming from? Does it mean in some twisted way I want the world to watch? Even as I write in this, journal I feel myself talking to an audience. But ask yourself, with every stroke of the brush, every click of the camera, every line written, every task completed, which wouldn’t you want to be celebrated for? Which moment of brilliance was yours alone, and which was for the world? Maybe every talent we possess comes as a sort of Faustian bargain with the prospect of fame. In large part, it’s because life itself is a performance, and art or anything we create is an expression of who we are. Creating is the physical manifestation of one's being, so to be celebrated for it is to be celebrated for existing at all. Who wouldn’t want that? Good or bad, the relationship between our passions and their motivations must constantly be reassessed so as to never lose sight of it’s genesis. We must never forget why we picked up the pen in the first place. Because recognition alone can never hold a candle to that of a true inner motivation. The allure of fame should never be the impetus. To give in is to risk the reason we do anything at all.

A man writes in his journal,

but he isn’t sure why.