We tell ourselves stories in order to live. But what happens when the story itself becomes the thing we cannot hold?
You say: I want to be an artist. You say: I am an artist. And already the conflict begins,not with the world, but with language, with the way a sentence becomes a noose, a mirror, a dare. A should. A to-do. We know, instinctively, that art is not about "should." We know that the moment we try to trap it, it slips. It flees. It freezes. It recoils. Art has never responded well to being cornered.
And neither have you.
You are describing, not weakness, but a heightened sensitivity to the electric fence of existence. To the alarms we’ve all been taught to ignore. You are not numb,you are overly lit. Bright with it. You feel everything. The lights, the voices, the voltage of a city. You live in a state of perpetual alert, of hypertextual overwhelm. Of course it’s hard to make art in a war zone. And the war zone is your own body. Your own brain. And yes, the world outside too.
You’ve learned to expect that your expression will be mocked, misread, diminished. That the things you offer will be called cute, silly, brave,words that function less as praise than as dismissal. A pat on the head. The artistic equivalent of being told to smile.
You say: People didn’t take me seriously when I made things. I hear that. We have built an entire culture on the burial of voices like yours. And then we punish you for the silence.
There is something corrosive in this insistence that if we really wanted to make art, we would. That if we really were artists, we would “just do the thing.” But art is not a performance of discipline. It is not a test of willpower. It is not a treadmill to be mounted every morning at 7:00 a.m. sharp. Art is, quite often, the residue of surviving. The aftermath of all the things we had no words for. The signal through the static.
And yes, sometimes the signal is scrambled.
You say you’re only getting this out through voice notes, transcription, AI editing. That it feels like cheating. As if there were a right way to say the truth. As if every writer in history didn’t already use what tools they had: wine, typewriters, dictation, amphetamines, ghostwriters, lovers, lies. What matters is that you are saying it. What matters is that it exists.
You want love to look like softness. You want connection to be ground, not glass. You want to be held without having to audition for it. That is not weakness. That is clarity.
There is a line you write that caught me in the throat: The moment it becomes a task, my body short-circuits.
Yes. I know this. I know it in a way that’s difficult to admit. That the desire to create can curdle under the fluorescent buzz of obligation. That sometimes the most radical act is to want without doing. To say: I am even when I don’t.
So let’s rewrite the story.
Let’s say you are not failing. You are not frozen. You are not broken or behind. You are a person with an exquisite antenna, picking up frequencies most people ignore. That sensitivity is not the thing in your way,it is the thing you do. The thing that makes you an artist.
Even the silence is a signal. Even the stillness is a statement.
And to the world that demands we justify our pace, our process, our very presence
I say this: We don’t owe you a clean draft. We don’t owe you a desk at 9:00 a.m. We don’t owe you legibility.
I suppose what I’ve learned,what we all learn, eventually is that feeling everything is not a flaw, but a kind of evidence. A proof of life. You said you bear yourself open, and I believe you. That’s the work, isn’t it? To stay open, even when the air stings. Even when the light hurts. If you ever need to talk or need anything my DMs are always open. Take care- Tom
"You are not numb,you are overly lit. Bright with it. You feel everything." - This whole comment made me tear up and i appreciate you taking time out of your day to respond like this. How precious are words and works of art in and of themselves. You named so many emotions of mine with such exquisiteness. Bearing myself open like this is the whole point for me. Writing and thinking and sharing these philosophies as they come and grown and change over time is what I aim to achieve here. Thank you for your empathy and kindness. ❤️🩹
We tell ourselves stories in order to live. But what happens when the story itself becomes the thing we cannot hold?
You say: I want to be an artist. You say: I am an artist. And already the conflict begins,not with the world, but with language, with the way a sentence becomes a noose, a mirror, a dare. A should. A to-do. We know, instinctively, that art is not about "should." We know that the moment we try to trap it, it slips. It flees. It freezes. It recoils. Art has never responded well to being cornered.
And neither have you.
You are describing, not weakness, but a heightened sensitivity to the electric fence of existence. To the alarms we’ve all been taught to ignore. You are not numb,you are overly lit. Bright with it. You feel everything. The lights, the voices, the voltage of a city. You live in a state of perpetual alert, of hypertextual overwhelm. Of course it’s hard to make art in a war zone. And the war zone is your own body. Your own brain. And yes, the world outside too.
You’ve learned to expect that your expression will be mocked, misread, diminished. That the things you offer will be called cute, silly, brave,words that function less as praise than as dismissal. A pat on the head. The artistic equivalent of being told to smile.
You say: People didn’t take me seriously when I made things. I hear that. We have built an entire culture on the burial of voices like yours. And then we punish you for the silence.
There is something corrosive in this insistence that if we really wanted to make art, we would. That if we really were artists, we would “just do the thing.” But art is not a performance of discipline. It is not a test of willpower. It is not a treadmill to be mounted every morning at 7:00 a.m. sharp. Art is, quite often, the residue of surviving. The aftermath of all the things we had no words for. The signal through the static.
And yes, sometimes the signal is scrambled.
You say you’re only getting this out through voice notes, transcription, AI editing. That it feels like cheating. As if there were a right way to say the truth. As if every writer in history didn’t already use what tools they had: wine, typewriters, dictation, amphetamines, ghostwriters, lovers, lies. What matters is that you are saying it. What matters is that it exists.
You want love to look like softness. You want connection to be ground, not glass. You want to be held without having to audition for it. That is not weakness. That is clarity.
There is a line you write that caught me in the throat: The moment it becomes a task, my body short-circuits.
Yes. I know this. I know it in a way that’s difficult to admit. That the desire to create can curdle under the fluorescent buzz of obligation. That sometimes the most radical act is to want without doing. To say: I am even when I don’t.
So let’s rewrite the story.
Let’s say you are not failing. You are not frozen. You are not broken or behind. You are a person with an exquisite antenna, picking up frequencies most people ignore. That sensitivity is not the thing in your way,it is the thing you do. The thing that makes you an artist.
Even the silence is a signal. Even the stillness is a statement.
And to the world that demands we justify our pace, our process, our very presence
I say this: We don’t owe you a clean draft. We don’t owe you a desk at 9:00 a.m. We don’t owe you legibility.
We are still here. Still artists. Still worthy.
I suppose what I’ve learned,what we all learn, eventually is that feeling everything is not a flaw, but a kind of evidence. A proof of life. You said you bear yourself open, and I believe you. That’s the work, isn’t it? To stay open, even when the air stings. Even when the light hurts. If you ever need to talk or need anything my DMs are always open. Take care- Tom
Thanks, Tom. I really appreciate your support. 🙏🏻
"You are not numb,you are overly lit. Bright with it. You feel everything." - This whole comment made me tear up and i appreciate you taking time out of your day to respond like this. How precious are words and works of art in and of themselves. You named so many emotions of mine with such exquisiteness. Bearing myself open like this is the whole point for me. Writing and thinking and sharing these philosophies as they come and grown and change over time is what I aim to achieve here. Thank you for your empathy and kindness. ❤️🩹