the artist

the artist

Felt like a fool for writing this to prompt that didn't exist.. but it felt like a waste to simply throw it away

I suppose being an artist offers the luxury of a pretense that allows romantic notions to bear more weight than the pragmatic. Although I live in an overly pragmatic world, I suppose I was never given the saving grace of being practical. At least that's what I thought as first, as I seemed to call myself an artist. And oddly counterintuitive enough, I knew the following of the world: (most) artists make (relatively) no money, ergo (most} artists are fools. And I suppose to this,  my romantic ego would instinctively respond in some foolish manner and say something foolish like, "well, at least being a fool affords me the break of having a dream, unlike you moneymaking fiends and unimaginative profit scumbags". I realize now that during this point in my life when I had these thoughts, I was an immature, naive, young artist.

Art, in its pure form, is not an uncultivated search for satisfaction; neither is it some sort of goal or attribute to my life. As I develop my sense in art, there comes a somewhat heartening resolution that tells me that my desire to go to pursue art comes not from social inhibitions or contrast of being pragmatic or romantic. Such is naive. This is the conclusion I have reached as a sorry irrational scum that can't face the blows of reality, or an artist: I do art not because I want to, but because in my life, it is what I will be doing. No, not necessity either, but because it is the only thing my sane mind will allow me to do. The only thing I can do. A gift and a curse, I am a prisoner to art. In other words, being born an artist, I was destined for  practical failure from the moment I took breath in this world, simply because my mind functions on a different plane than the mathematical, business or science oriented.

Fuck the artist.