i have already passed the halfway mark of the current journal i'm using. i've been filling it with so much thought that somehow materialised into ink on paper.
i suddenly thought about this sometime last week? i forgot why, but i realised that i don't write as much poetry as i used to. the words just don't flow through my brain as much as it did. i miss it, but at the same time i just let it be. i don't want to force anything. if i'm gonna be honest, the last piece that i wrote that i was genuinely proud of was waaay back 2017/2018. after that, the words just don't come up like they used to.
i recently read Elise's post about why she stopped writing poetry and it made me self reflect on why I did too. then a few days ago, i came across a post about how art is only recognised when it's by a famous/influential person. it made me self reflect more on why i do art in general. i guess it's a big question for everyone.
i cannot speak for the people who do art as a living/profession, but i feel like a lot of us get lost in the shadows of recognition and fame when a lot of us started writing or creating art because it fed our souls. because it was the outlet for our thoughts and emotions that couldn't sit still in our brains.
why are we doing art?
i remember playing the piano and stopping when my teacher started inviting me to play in recitals and concerts. i started playing the piano pretty late and i was content with learning the pieces i wanted to play but being part in recitals and concerts made something that relaxes me a type of responsibility. suddenly, i have to practice, i have to play this way or that way. i cannot put myself in it. something that fed my soul slowly started corrupting it with jealousy and insecurity. he's so young and he can already play that. i was paired with someone half my age for this concert.
the same goes for writing. it used to be my escape from reality and to document my fleeting days. then one day i stopped and i wondered why people don't read my works as much as they read others'. i catch myself comparing my writing to others' works. slowly, without noticing, i was copying how they wrote their works, stripping me from mine. again, something that fed my soul was corrupted with insecurity and the insatiable hunger for recognition.
that was then... i guess the reason i hardly write now was because of my old professor who gave me a different perspective on writing poetry. about how poets paint the image of their thoughts and memories with similes and metaphors that are so personal, they're the only ones who fully understand it. it's so personal to the point that others could relate to it. i just couldn't write things that are just made up in my brain anymore. i can't be the impostor that i once was, trying to write away my insecurities with words laced with too much (even fake) emotions.
at some point, i realised i couldn't do art as a profession. i can't corrupt the things that bring me joy, that makes me feel alive. if i put responsibility in it, it strips me off of what i bring out. does that make sense?
it makes me wonder what art professionals feel or think during these times? do they lose or change the reason they do art? are they doing it now for the money? for the recognition? why do we do art?
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