Naah, That’s Not Art!

The Butterfly Effect

You pretty much can’t call art what I do with words. But it’s what I do for now. My words are all I’ve got and arranging them in comprehensible patterns is the job at the time being. My art is my attempt and if you feel differently you probably do because you have the double right to feel that way: well, weren’t we born with the innate right to feel differently and secondly, I grant you the right to dislike all I write because there isn’t much greatness to it. But in the seemingly meaningless meanders of my keyboard, many thoughts churn inside my head whether I like it or not. I guess I chose to do it, but I’m still praying to God to give me the wisdom to know the difference. I’m not sure if that sounds sarcastic or not, but it sure wasn’t intended so. I haven’t come to terms with myself whether I should stop the ramblings or get up and fight the demon with a new shield, encrusted with better, stronger words that coalesce to better form a mirror of the world, and of my world. It’s about acquiring an exquisite technology of the word. The struggle is tough and in the making of a phrase many voices soar and roar and preach: ”You better stop doing this. Naah, this isn’t art!” 

And they might very well be right, I know I walk on a thin layer of ice and who knows what lies beneath in the murky depths of universal reactions. You can hate it if you want to, I promise I won’t take it to the heart. I might stop or I might rise again to the surface; a humbled Venus of the lake, risen from the scum of shame. I wonder if Venus was literate at all and if writing had any draw for her? It would have been pretty awesome, though. In the meanwhile, I’ll pretend she’s my avatar and that in the making of my flash-stories, she’s able to write and if the result isn’t that great, well, I found my scapegoat.