Lots of people keep telling me that I will never be happy until I give up on all notions of being an artist. That the best thing to do right now is to not even think about it. I felt it was important to write this down even though writing this down is an act of writing and that might be considered to be making art in some way. The previous sentence was a failed attempt at not making art. And the one that followed it was even worse.

So where do we go from here?

I can stare at the aquarium and hope for the best. Whatever that is.

So back to those people. The ones who tell me that the only way to be happy is to give up the very thing that once made me the happiest. Maybe by ‘happy,’ they are referring to something else. Maybe the happiness they refer to is so fleeting, it defies definition or explanation. Whatever happiness meant at the moment they said it, that meaning is long gone. It’s too bad because it would have been nice to know what it was.

If someone tells you, “I’m happy to help,” does that mean “I am only happy when I help … but otherwise I am devoid of any feeling whatsoever”? But maybe being devoid of any feeling is what it feels like to be happy. Maybe.

About The Lost Pedestrian

In my wanderings throughout the moments/days/years, I try in earnest to find the mystical within the mundane and the mundane within the mystical, oftentimes confusing one from the other. I have wandered and roamed through many a city, many a town, in a state of wonder and bewilderment, without necessarily going anywhere. I am easily lost, but eventually found. (I am guessing you have just found me). My sincere hope is that you will find Something in this warehouse of thought, memory and false memory, words, numbers, tangents, murmurs, echoes (lots and lots of echoes), voices, dreams, and other paraphernalia.
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