Why I love my work

Sometimes life becomes difficult to live. I think this is true for most people. Well, at least those of us who are bothered to take time and wonder that we exist at all.

And it can be very depressing to think about it. Because then, especially when someone dies, it seems so meaningless. Yaani someone can live all their life and when they die it is as if they never existed at all? Why? Why then did they have to exist in the first place?

I think, unfortunately perhaps, that this is the work of an artist. And I am one. When I finally allowed myself to dress as I feel and do things as I think they should, it naturally came out. And it was nice at first. The thing people notice about me is the color of what I dress in or the hairstyle- and whatever else I normally choose to do with my head.

And it is exciting to be an artist. You tend to be colorful, your stories are exaggerated with vigor. You say things people only think in their heads but never dare say. You do things a little bit differently with a little bit of more color. You get people excited about mundane things.

But then there is the other side!

The disciple to wake up and write or do your work. The energy you have to haul somewhere inside of you that no one can see. The having to stop yourself from running through life to really look and see what is happening. And then it (whatever life throws at you) disturbing your mind when you are alone. Until you have to express it. The doubts you have about the truth of your work.

Why should anyone bother to take their time to notice your work anyway? What special thing will it add to their day any way? And what are you doing with your life? Sitting in your bed writing? People woke up at 5 am, got out of their beds, went to work and are ploughing through! Are you serious about life?

All the doubts of the world assail you. All the urgent voices of your teachers and parents in your head.

You fight off the feeling. Some people get high. I just get out of the house, go out into the sun, watch birds and the clouds and I feel just fine. Of late I have discovered the guitar and it beautiful calming melody. I play until my fingers hurt.

And then I am fine. I continue writing and other things that are essential to being an artist. The hardest bit, I have found, is the thinking part.

You think alone.

And being alone can be quite hard. Especially if you are a social being. And especially if you try to just sit still and let thoughts that come to yor filter through your internal police-man ( this is where the voices of your parents and teachers come in).

And some thoughts just come in unwelcome. They remind us of things we would like to forget. Thoughts we feel guilty about for some reason. Thoughts that get us worried. Thoughts that threaten to depress us.

And then one day out of the blue, a good old friend swears that your writing is different and good. They are ready to put their reputation for it. They say it with the fervor of a football fanatic. Or another friend laughs at something you wrote. And one asks you why you have not been writing of late.

Nothing, nothing beats appreciation.

 

 

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