The other day my reality split open and I could see clearly. What is actually happening around and in you at any given moment is the truth. The trick, it seems, is to allow it to be lived in honesty, not to hide or mask it.
The last couple of years I tamed my expression, my truth. I learned how to manipulate it and how to keep things inside but mostly how to distract myself from life with the help of superficiality and reason. And this thing called reason is very practical and all but if it comes to feeling the space between air and being it has no place. Every time I shake myself awake from robot-mode where I’m executing and brutally calculating tasks and goals for some arbitrary outcome only to keep others off my back I ask myself why I have done so again. Even while writing this I have to remind myself that this is actually for me not for anyone else, a massive change of perspective I have to relearn. Being in a place where I consistently expose my work to criticism is very exhausting and rattles me always. I’m afraid of not being enough or of making meaningless work, of missing the bigger picture or in fact not being authentic in my practice. I am afraid of starting to work not from the inside out but from the outside in. I’m afraid of loosing my humanity in a world that is obsessed with identity.
If I track my constant tension down the rabbit hole I get to a place where nothing matters anymore and where a still underground lake is calm and soft. And that experience while writing these words feels incredibly surreal as my fingers cannot keep up and will never be able to repeat what just happened. But only thinking about what I just wrote destroys it completely and raises the tension even more. I feel judged, and it is because I judge. It feels as if my inner self wants to break out of a self made cage that I built with pride and expectations. But the true inner self is nothing, it is the space in an empty room, it has no identity or flavour so I ask myself what will be left except for the memory of the construction that housed it. Do I want nothing? Is this the freedom we all seek? To have no self-made obstacles in our way, to peel away the layers of the onion as someone dear to me pointed out. I want to be courageous enough to let go of this outer straitjacket that is preventing me from living, from creating freely and to become one with the universe. But it’s so easy to complain, it’s so convenient to fit in and play the game as it all alleviates fear, but it will kill you, or rather never allow you to be born.
I am not sure if what I do is art. I am not sure if it is self expression. I am not sure if it is self therapy. I know that something wants to be unblocked, broken down. It might be the outside or the inside, contradictory as it is as they blur away into materialism and you’re unsure on which side of the door you are standing. I still refrain but feel pressured to take part in social commentary where art is used as a tool to further craft identities built on ideals. I really really hope that there is more to us, deep down, waiting to be discovered, broken free.
My vision is blurry as I go through the words I’ve written, I feel warm and stingy. Talking openly about openness and creating a space where I can expose my humanity with all my fears and confusions is something I crave. A place where my thoughts and feelings are becoming a product, they become evidence of my existence, not for you to see but for me to be reminded and more certain that I am here and alive writing right now. Because I know that soon I will be clouded by voices, opinions and judgements again, feeling so very small, threatened and confused as if my mind is burning away like an incense stick while being carried around by this large robotic corpus trying to follow directions. I want to remind myself to be honest with myself and my expression. I hope that by exposing my humanity, what is true for me, I can reunite with it again and experience my existence as a friend who does not judge and refuses to use empty words as fuel for life.