I shared a story with a friend. Growing up, we were best friends, but we are all changed in time and life-experience. We find purpose, or fall into fold with directioned masses, and as we proceed in life—molded, shaped, and directed in experience—people, places, spirits intimate in past become strangers when revisited in the present.
I shared a story with him, knowing I needed a friend—someone to talk to, share, be open with, and exchange emotions, views, and art from life’s experience. Writing is nice, but we all need, too, living soul connections. The latter is something, outside of immediate home, I frequently neglect.
I try and share perceptions and convictions in my soul; but in writing, it falls on deaf eyes (I use deaf intentionally, because he neither hears, nor feels, intent or purpose story seeks to say).
“If you are writing for yourself, that’s fine; but if you’re writing for an audience, you have to understand how they will think and what they want. Your writing doesn’t resonate and nobody—that I’ve talked to—understands what you’re getting at.”
I take his words with listening indifference, same as to any others that seek to detract, and turn me from one of my soul’s core joys.
To me, writing is an art, not a commodity (cheap and for the masses); creation and sharing from soul and spirit, even should our offering be dismissed, denied, or denigrated by those to whom it’s given.
He’s not my audience, though I tried to share as a friend offering sight into self.
Art and literature resonate not with the masses, but in a few, because art is an intrinsically personal, individual, experience both in creation and receiving experience. Art does not speak, strike, affect all the same; and if it did, it would not be art but base stimuli.
I accept to by and far most of the world, what I write and share will mean nothing; seem stupid, a waste, and pointless. But I don’t write for them. I write because it is the medium that sets my own spirit free, and because I still hold faith that to One, or Some, my writing speaks.
So I continue in life, sharing my most intimate and open to a Universe of mostly silent response in belief, one day, my soul will find an audience in which to share and exchange in reciprocate spirit-effect. Until then, I live silent and shallow among living friends: blind and deaf to my depths and dreams.