I come in peace

So, I finally got down to opening a blog, years behind everyone else, it seems. However, better late than never, and the urge to share what you write is one of the most primal urges a writer has. Wow, that’s a lot of repeated words. I write, for myself, first of all, but after a while, being in an audience of 1 can be lonely. I believe a work of art receives additional value from being consumed. The person who reads it leaves behind a trace, like saliva. So, that’s a kind of addition.

But writing *with* an audience in mind is something I find difficult. Its like sleeping on a stage. I don’t know if that makes sense. A work of art must first be born out of the artist’s need to create it, to birth it. It begins inside the artist, like an embryo, so giving birth to it becomes absolutely necessary. Otherwise, it can rot away, inside. I’d like to think that’s why cavemen began to draw. Or talk to each other. After all, thoughts are art. And language is thoughts. And language is not language unless it is shared.

If you understood any of this, congrats. That makes one of us.

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