Gedanken während eines Spaziergangs im Januar. Was, wenn der Sinn des Lebens wäre, deine ganz eigene Form des Ausdrucks zu finden?
Recently, I was struggling and kept asking myself if I fit into a group of ambitious writers, related to an arts club, I had been attending. There were two voices in my head, strange arguing. Both going back and forth – questioning my understanding of (my) writing.
Me: Come on, I’m not an artist – and I don’t even want to be one! I’m not interested in editing my texts and making them feel kind of artificial. I use my writing as a tool, I just want to express myself.
Other me: Fair enough! …(thinking)… But – isn’t that a proper definition of being an artist: expressing yourself?
Me: Mmhh, really? Maybe, but I don’t want to put a label on it, setting up expectations… I don’t want it to sound so meaningful, right? I just want to be me!
Other me: Ok, you mean… like me, like in meaningful?
Me: Wait, what is going on here?! Feels like you’re leading me into a fucking dead end?! Please, stop it!
Hours later, both of us still caught in our loops, going for a walk.
To our surprise, we discovered some remaining snow, sparkling in the sun. Childish joy arose in our hearts.
Unfazed by the cold, the gnarled fruit trees stretched their bare arms towards the blue skies. Day after day, year after year, they adapt without bending, always fitting perfectly into nature’s eternal cycle.
Fresh, icy air flows through our lungs, awakening all the senses. How good it feels to be alive! How all thoughts can move… grow… transform…
And then, all of a sudden, me and other me becoming one voice:
Omg, what if everyone, by default, was an artist? What if the purpose of life was to find your very own, unique way of expressing yourself? Playing around, not taking it all too seriously? No limitations, just freedom?!
You know, this was the moment I decided to make life itself my art. I became a *Lebenskünstlerin*.
And, ok, I have to admit, I love editing (my) texts…