Imagine being impotent. The desire for sex, to reproduce is a primal, distinctly human urge, it’s almost an urge too strong to be ignored. It’s survival of the fittest, most virile. The youngest most nubile female meets the hunter that provides for the village. If one can’t have sex one masturbates to relieve the urge to reproduce. If one can’t have sex for psychological or physiological regions one takes viagra or inflate one’s phallus with air.
For a working artist, a vocational artist, an artist that wants and needs to live by producing art and makes sense of the world around himself through art, art is as equally important as air, water food and sex, Maslow’s first rung on the hierarchy of needs. The physiological rung, the very base of a humans needs. As important as air or excretion.
I am that artist, that impotent, hungry, asphyxiating, thirsty and constipated artist. My soul is hurting and the art within me is tearing at my insides, competing with my depression to see which can be the most painful. But lack of motivation due to the depression stops me writing or being an artist and not having the means to write or create art feeds the depression. It’s a feedback loop that tears audibly through my head and hurts. Hurts so much that a lot of the time I just sleep it away. Even now. After being asleep literally ALL day, I am hurting inside, physically, even as I write/finish this note.
I decided at the beginning of the year I had a choice. Stay in London to finish what I came back to do or go back to Cornwall and forget ambition and just be okay with the sea, a dog, maybe a few friends and live out my years forgetting I had dreams of seeing the world, creating more controversy, fulfilling certain bucket list goals.
I’m staying put. In West London. Things are hard, very hard. But I’ve been to gigs, made an effort to talk to people but it’s still not enough. Being an artist/writer is a day job. It isn’t part time jolly’s at the Dublin Castle. It’s hard work and effort that pay off. And I struggle to find the strength. There’s nothing more I can add… That is all.