I'm starting to understand how Van Gogh felt.
Why he would cut off his own ear out of madness.
It's beeing driven to paint in his case. In mine being driven to write. And endless stream of thoughts and ideas that flow through my fingers and out into a world that doesn't listen.
And with the way the world is, the way that life is going. The way the corporations take control of art with thei AI models and blantent theft all of this writing I've done, all of the stories I've created will end up just disapearing into the ether.
Seeing it taken and mutated into something that doesn't even convey the same emotion and feeling that was behind it's creation.
I understand on a logical level that art is shaped by the viewer.
That once it leaves an artists hands and is put out into the world it becomes something else.
But as I sit here, yet again, working round the clock on projects that will probably just be stolen from me the way all the rest have I ask yself why keep going?
Why keep trying?
Why keep writing?
I poor everything I have into these thigns.
My time, my energy, my resrouces.
My sanity.
And every turn.
Every time I think I hae something to work with.
Something to show for it I see people already there.
Making a living doing what I was made to believe was a waste of time.
Gatekeeping with one hand and robbing with the other.
Some days the only thing that keeps me going is the writing.
It's not a question of "Can I write something?"
It's a question of "Will I write?"
And right now.
As i type this, wishing for nothing more than to get some rest...some sleep but unable to because I don't know how i'm going to replace my tools as they continue to break. How I'm going to refill my pantry as it dwindles yet again.
Refusing to take a hand or call in debts that are owed to me.
A part of me holds hope that there is some sort of justice in the world. That I'll get to see it.
But as the days turn into weeks and the years pass me by.
The little flame of hope that keeps me going gutters in the breeze.
A poet.
A story teller.
A singer of songs.
Screaming into the void until my voice is raw and my heart in pieces.
And only hearing silence in return.
Yet still.
I write.
Because that is what I am.
