ON TIME SPENT ALONE

My own realizations shock me sometimes. The topic that my thoughts always come back to is the topic of solitude, not in a general sense but with respect to its importance as a catalyst for creative endeavors. I know that there exists some kind of a balance between interaction with others and solitude, and I know that both are equally essential in their own right for the creative individual, but something about the former leaves me nauseous at times, and longing for time alone, and this longing for time alone is a thinly-veiled longing for creative output and intellectual input. Interactions with others leave me hungry for something, and this something makes itself known in a fierce way that keeps me up at night stressing over nothing in particular, but everything at once. 

Does being a creative individual (and i mean this in a broad sense that encapsulates all mediums and art forms and that counts intellectual pursuits as creative pursuits, for the soul of the artist and the soul of the intellectual are, in my opinion, necessarily inseparable) require a degree of self-loathing in order for the creator to be productive? If I find myself in a place where I feel too much comfort, I begin to despise myself, for in this comfort I am not driven to write, and I am not driven to learn, or compete, or to make music, or to move forward in the career world with the kind of passion that I want to possess. I crave this kind of unsettledness, and I crave this sense of urgency. I crave this sense of "something is not right" and "something needs to be done". for this is the drive that causes me to create, and to write' and this is the drive that gives birth to passion in the soul. I feel more lost when I do not feel this drive, for when I feel content, I forget where I am on the path of my life, and where I am becomes more of a point surrounded by nothingness than a specific point on a line, or a ray, that links my past to my future. I cannot exist as a point, no matter how euphoric the nature of that point is. Rather, I need to exist as a ray, constantly looking toward the future and, somehow, constantly fearful of the future (although not in a way that overwhelms me and renders me stagnant). I need to exist as a ray pointing toward the future, fearful of the future in a way that makes me constantly aware of the importance of doing those things about which I am passionate. I cannot exist in a way that allows me to forget about my reasons for educating myself and writing and making music. I need to constantly, or at least sporadically, feel ill at ease and uncomfortable, for in this uncomfortableness I am reminded of the need to push on, and continuously work on things, and continuously search within my own mind for truth, and continuously create. I need to constantly or sporadically hate where I stand with regard to myself and my peers, so that I constantly feel inclined to work harder. I must keep doing this in order to feel happy, even whilst knowing that I will never reach a point at which I will feel proud of my work, or satisfied with my work; at least not for long. It is strange that the artistic and intellectual drive is such: Even while fully aware that that which is created will never be satisfactory for the individual who creates it, the individual himself cannot help but continue to try to make something that satisfies his own judgment. Logically he is aware that this is impossible, yet he fools himself into thinking that he could be wrong, and subsequently presses on again and again, always dissatisfied, and always eager to try to make something better, or to do more, or to work harder, not because he thinks he can ever be content (for he does not want to be content: as an artist, contentedness is the equivalent of death), but because he hates himself when he is not working, and because he loathes his past creations, and only in working does he feel he is moving beyond this level of productivity and quality that he so despises. In seeing end products of new projects, he does not find contentedness or peace of mind. Only in the act of working itself does he find any sort of solace or quietude of his inner-voice.

The artist and the intellectual know this, and if they are one and the same they know this all too well. This individual, an embodiment of the mind and the soul and the heart, and the desire of all three to break free from something that they know they are forever trapped inside (perhaps this thing is he body itself), is fully aware of the futility of all of his efforts, not in the minds of others but in his own mind, for he will never create something that will render him content enough to cease his efforts. He is aware of this, yet he continues, for he knows that not attempting is worse than seeing a series of failed attempts forever until his death, and he cannot bear not to attempt to defy the limitations of his own body and mind any more than he can bear not to sleep or eat. In fact, sleeping and eating sometimes come secondary to the artistic drive. 

The artist/intellectual has within his soul an infinite well of creative energy, despite his body's finite supply of physical energy, and the two are constantly at odds. The individual hates these limitations. Just as art in general is perhaps an attempt to defy one's own mortality, the daily acts of creation and thought and analysis are each respective attempts at defying the body's own needs for rest and sleep and quietude. In this day and age, these acts become not only attempts to defy the body, but attempts to defy the structure of society, and the conventions of how one is supposed to live. 

The artist reflects upon the large machine that is the economy, the political world, the media, the world of pop culture, and collective conscious, the world of science, and the world of religion, and the world of technology (and so on in this fashion) in such a way that is unpleasant in the eyes of that which it depicts. It shows a side of things that are perhaps otherwise hidden, and it often shows a negative side of things. This is as necessary for the advancement of the sciences and culture as institutions themselves, but despite the necessity of such a process, it is hated by those who see themselves reflected as a result of the process. The artist and the intellectual fight each day for survival, emotionally and physically, and constantly run the risk of being exterminated. The artist and the intellectual must fight many fights: the fight to stay alive and afford to eat (a fight imposed by the difficulty of finding work and simultaneously making art), the fight against the monotony of the job required in order to do so, the fight against the inner-critic and his hatred of the self, and his hatred of the self's work, and his hatred of the self's lack of productivity (often due to previously mentioned job and the need for such in order to survive), the fight against the rest of society's persecution. Much of society hates the artist and hates the intellectual, for he represents something uncomfortable (which makes sense, for his very existence is the result of discomfort and the tendency to create this discomfort for himself on purpose), and also because the artist and the intellectual expose to the rest of the world truths about their own nature that they themselves where unable to see for themselves. This is the ultimate slap in the fact, for it shows those who are content to be stagnant and comfortable that they should not necessarily be so content to be as they are.