Sanity Laments

With writing, the only pleasure is after it’s done. Otherwise it’s writing and reading what you’ve written then editing and reading what you’ve edited. Got it down to a routine, a cycle. Then there’s thinking about copy, discussing copy, researching copy, which happens before and during the cycle. It’s all copy really, work for hire or literature for love. All for what? So somebody can read something in minutes that has taken you hours, days to write. The longer it takes to write the quicker it takes to read. There’s nothing I can do about it, it’s the nature of the profession. What about after it’s read? Action? Effect? Result? Will it linger and does it matter if it does, and if it does of that is what? Does it matter how long and within whom it does? Not a whit. Every artist bleeds. Art is not utility, except for vases and drapes. No one is fed or kept alive and if healed it’s an unquantifiable emotional response and probably random, what heals me bores you or you were being healed by something else and had no time to notice what is healing me. Measuring some social or political benefit? Uplift community, further justice. Now you know who has your vote! What else is worthy enough to fund? Other than your personal growth. Reading someone who looks like you makes you feel better about yourself, guaranteed. Why bother with the depth of ideas if representation is accomplished. Nobody cares about the human condition, focus on the positive. What other truth can we know?

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