Blissful Ignorace
After reading a rough draft of my short story, my friend told me “you’re such an amazing writer. Every time you spew out something poetic, it blows me away. Not because I don’t think that it’s in you, it’s just that you rarely show it”
After reading that I thought to myself “Me? really? No?” I’m not poetic. I’m not romantic. I’m not emo. I’m not creative. I’m just CrazyChan, a man with something to say, a product of emotional distress and nowhere to let it out except on paper.
One morning not long ago, in the state of half conscientiousness a dreamt about a gnome that crawled up next to my head and whispered in my ear. “Boom!!! let it out Eric or you’re gonna blow up….. Rest your soul.”
I don’t consider my writing art, but if you think about art, you have to think about where it comes from. All art comes from emotions, be it from your conscience for social wrongs, love, death, and just all around distress. All the greatest art in the world came from people with some serious problems, like you need fucking therapy problems. And I don’t wish that upon anybody. So me? CrazyChan? A product of emotional distress, am not a poet or artist. Ignorance is truly bliss, too bad I can’t find it.