art is all we have
these are the things i will pass on
i’ve been thinking a lot about what i will leave behind. this thought has admittedly been slamming against the insides of my skull for arguably as long as i’ve been a conscious adult, but it's become more frequent and more intense in the past few months. i have also, as you might imagine, been thinking about the closing monologue of metal gear solid 2.
life isn't just about passing on your genes. we can leave behind much more than just dna. through speech, music, literature, and movies... what we've seen, heard, felt... anger, joy, and sorrow... these are the things i will pass on. that's what i live for. [...] building the future and keeping the past alive are one and the same thing.
i think about my death quite a lot, but i don’t know when i’m going to die. a core tenet of whatever’s going on in my brain is this naïve idea that i can somehow control when it happens. if i take matters into my own hands, divert the trolley into myself, then i can free myself from the fear of dying when i don’t feel ready. if i can decide it’s time, then i can’t be scared. but no human being has that grace. your flame can be snuffed out at any time.
of course, i’m still here. i have not, in fact, killed myself. a surprise to myself and those around me; i made it to 23. if you’d asked me a few years ago what sounded more likely out of me writing a book or making it to this age, i probably would have looked at you funny and said writing a book. it’s interesting, then, that a very real part of why i haven’t killed myself yet is my desire to leave something behind. my anger, my joy, my sorrow. until i’ve left behind something that truly matters to me and others, i can’t kill myself. it would be a waste.
so, a book. a book that thousands of people have already purchased. a book that will, hopefully, be the most comprehensive look at a piece of art that is already incredibly important to many more than just the book’s buyers. a book that i will be able to hold in my hands, give or take two seasons from now. a physical book will, most likely, outlast the flesh i inhabit. it's something i will leave behind. so why do i feel that if i perished the day after the book is finalised and set to print, i still wouldn't have done enough?
this fire to create is what keeps me on this earth. i find the notion of ‘life's work’ sardonically fascinating - if someone has completed their life’s work, why do they continue to live? i have not found the answer to this question, nor the answer to the general question of why we keep living. but my best guess, for now, is to make other people feel something. to make some kind of impact on them as a person through your art. to make art that they remember the feeling of long after they forget about its actual content or the name of its artist. if that is through a book on existing media, a novel of novel ideas, a painting of three coloured lines, a soundbite of the wind swirling through the forest or a blog such as this one, it doesn't matter.
i am going to die at some point. it remains to be seen whether that will be soon or in the far future, by my hand or nature running its course. but before then, i must make something to make people feel. something that bears an evident mark of my soul. and if i never feel that i've achieved that with each new piece of art i create, then i suppose i just have to keep on living.
art is all we have.