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When I was a little girl, I was obsessed with the concept of a “legacy”. Perhaps it came from the fact that my family didn’t pay me any attention or that I didn’t have any real friends, I realized that if I worked hard enough, was skilled enough, got lucky enough that I could make something that would stand the test of time, even to a small amount of people, and mean something to them after I was gone, thus making me remembered. I wanted to be here even after I wasn’t here. I was so terrified by the concept of nonexistence that I just had to find a way to exist, even after I didn’t physically exist anymore. I drew, I wrote, I made films, I did a million things to try and fix this problem, and ultimately after 15 years none of it has made a single lick of difference.
Now, on the cusp of my thirties, I find that instead, I’m wanting to leave as little a footprint on this planet as possible in terms of my existence. I want there to be no evidence whatsoever that I was ever here. How does one go from obsession with legacy to obsession with nothingness? I don’t want a paper trail. I want my birth certificate, any identifying papers (ID, social security, you name it), and anything I ever made to be burnt to a cinder or at the very least, locked away tight in a safe nobody can ever reopen. I want to have not existed. Sometimes I sit down, and I look through the art I’ve made, the novels I have unpublished on my computer, and everything else, and I just think who am I to be filling the world up with more uninspired garbage nobody is interested in? Why don’t I do something worthwhile, actually leave the world with something worth caring about, try and better it somehow in the short time I’ll be here? But instead, I continue to force “art” out of me all for the sake of nothing other than my own ego.
I used to qualify it by saying I made art to help myself cope with things. That it was my therapy, and it helped me deal with everything around me. I realize now that that’s a pretty huge lie. That was just my way to continue making shit without realizing I’d lost interest in it. But now I realize I don’t really enjoy anything anymore. I thought that after so many years I’d really found my calling, but I have no calling. I have no purpose. My art isn’t a career, it’s barely a hobby, and I have no reason to be here. Maybe I’m just going through a really rough patch, I’ll willing to entertain the idea, but…
But after a lifetime of abuse from almost every angle, of disinterest in everything I do from almost every angle, including my own at this point, why bother doing anything. Why bother even being here. What happens when you lose interest in the one thing that’s kept you around your entire life? What happens then?
What happens indeed.
Today’s “Close To Monsters” is brought to you by your unsung neurotic irritations.
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