Art, Madness, and Why Is It So Difficult To be An Artist of Renown?.

Where are the words you have written, as well as the ones you wished you had written? You know you are not an artist, but only "un artiste manque' ". You only have artistic sensibilities, but don't have enough talent to reach the artistic shore. Still, there are moments you actually feel that you possess a certain grandeur and beauty with words. That's why you feel suffocated if you keep imposing upon yourself an obscurity and internal exile. There has to be a meeting place somewhere between lacerating self-doubt and occasional bouts of overweening confidence. After living off the written words of others for years, you are now striking out on your own.

The stories and poems and essays you are pouring out are only lies and imaginings and embroideries. They are part of the process of your search for your place in the world of the written words. You embraced existentialism and atheism; you explored structuralism and deconstruction; you went into a serious reading of history; you read about cognitive science. You have trained your mind. You have improved upon your formal education. You could theorize but you have got nowhere of being who you want to be the most: an artist with words. Meanwhile death is looming at the door.

Many times, in the wee hours of the morning you sit up in bed in fear and trembling because you think you are a fraud: so much desire and so little accomplishment. You feel not only the universe is empty of meaning, but you yourself are also barren and empty on top of being lonely.

You have both eviscerated and romanticized love and loneliness. You have regarded raw, animal lust with disdain but fascinated by its energy and flamboyance. To achieve altered states of consciousness so you can have access to the mysterious source of inspiration, you practice fasting, meditation, sleep deprivation, and occasional beers. It works sometimes. Out of the blue, at unexpected moments, you experience a feeling of strange discomfort that only words can relieve. At those moments your thoughts soar and words arrive to carry you above the oceans that are heaving across the planet. Those moments make up for periods of agony and despair that make you feel that you are an abyss.

You are conscious that you have a few years left on this planet. This self-knowledge, by no means unique, does not deter you from pursuing a line of inquiry into a nagging question whether you are for real or merely a clumsy fraud.

Wissai