Of Love And Quar

Erich Fromm had said in his book, “The Art of Loving”, that “love” should be categorized as an art; and like me, who wants to be really good at art, to be a legitimate artist, and even aims to become one of the great masters, then I have to dedicate my whole life to it---to have active participation and choose to learn and better myself day in and day out. Therefore, if love is an art, then art is an act of love---a choice and not a feeling, to passionately want to be immersed by the craft of my desire in every second of my short life, and not when I just “feel like it”. Unfortunately, even as words and ideas flow uncontrollably through my mind, the fact that I don’t act on writing them down and creating a byproduct (no matter how insignificant) means that I am not a “real” writer or artist as I want to think I am. I am just a person who has the ability to write, much like anyone else on the planet. Because no matter what those inspirational quotes tell me on the internet, they are false---not everyone is an artist and not everyone is special. At best, I think most of us are especially individually mediocre. In some cases, collateral damage for those humans who actually made significant and world-changing choices---wretched choices, but it was made.

Ever since I was young, I’ve always wondered and searched for something to consume me---and I didn’t even care if it was a destructive obsession. Hell, I would even prefer it; because then, it would mean that it would be something so niche and enveloping, that no matter what it is, I would be the only one most qualified for it. I mean, there’s a reason why authorities do not readily disclose a plausible serial killer’s name and/or identity---it’s to avoid copycats who also want to become famous---or in that particular case, infamous. Now, I’m not saying I dream of becoming a most wanted serial killer...though, there have been people who I’ve successfully killed in my head--but doesn’t everybody, at some point? If there’s anything I want to take notes from the most famous ones, like Elizabeth Bathory or H.H. Holmes, are their audacity for perfection and their keen patience for details---just two of the essential traits one needs to become one of the best in any given profession or hobby; and yet, here I am, just an individual who had just enough childhood trauma to make her have just a little bit of an edge but not enough to drive her over the edge. Just borderline normal.

I’ve always viewed every year as a weird time, so quarantine during a pandemic is no different. In fact, spending time alone is something I am very good at, and yet, I still fail to incite in me a passion so great that I can no longer eat and sleep. In turn, I get depressed with that thought and realization that I can do nothing but sleep and eat. I rarely, if at all, feel insecure and envious, but I do feel these things towards those people who have in them the ability to produce something concrete---something immortally separate from themselves even though it affects little to no change at all towards the destiny of humanity. Yes, I am capable and have the resources to make some, if not most, of my dreams a reality, and yet I am a failure because I am missing one key ingredient which somehow eluded me all my life---a true sense of unstoppable passion. I am sorry and hesitant to admit to myself, that maybe, unironically, I am dead inside.

I am also perfectly aware that wanting is very much different from acting; and if I may go back to the philosophy of Erich Fromm, love and the activity of loving is not an easy choice to make---a person has to be consistent and to give love out freely without expecting something in return---to love for love’s sake and not because it is something transactional. And even though I seem confident that my time alone has afforded me this type of wisdom and feelings of security of which I do not necessarily need anything from anyone else, I think I’ve merely transferred those deep-rooted insecurities towards my creative processes. Even though I’ve made reading and other forms of activities, which are deemed as an “intellectual’s ventures”, as parts of my personality, the unfortunate truth that I am writing not because for the sake I like or love doing it, but because I expect it to make me somebody else ideal, is where the false passion lies. And anything that is running on lies, cannot go far. Lies cannot sustain a true sense of living. If I truly want my life to be an artwork and not merely a passive activity towards mortality, I should stop treating my hobbies as if I was a fuckboy and satisfy my writing by committing to it; and maybe, just maybe, the art of loving it will create love in and of itself worthy enough to be shared to others.