I like writing. Well, not so much like as see it as a personal necessity. It’s a way of processing. Very old school, nothing new there. But that’s the point! Everything is actually new when you write.
You re-invent the wheel in your own image and likeness, warts and all. You finally discover fire, despite living under a desert sun. It perhaps has no relevance to anyone but you, but you are worthy enough. Words have a magic.
Granted sometimes words fail. Maybe that’s where painting comes into play? Another road into the truth, ‘truth’, note lowercase ‘t’.
Poetry, Rap, Modernist Literature or just good old-fashion realist painting. Figures have glazed faces and unanimated clothes, clunky irregular sized limbs. We try to express how we feel. Our attempts to rage against the advancing night.
Thank God for the internet and all the wonderful artists it serves up and there’s even room for the not so wonderful as well. True democracy.