A LETTER TO ART

Dear Art,

Please go away. I'm done with you. As a pursuit, I'm about to quit. I'm on my last thread, the final and finest string; the knife hovers just beside it, the slightest touch and it will snap. I'm close to the end of existence. I can't continue to delude myself with nonsense as my only salvation much longer. My heart has been broken too many times. My soul has been crushed even more. I will never find love. I will never find artistic partnership. I'm too strange. I'm "exceptional", "extraordinary", I'm what many wish they were and desperately pretend to be. But they're fools. They only wish to be this kind of person because they are not this kind of person. It hurts. I'm alone--forever it seems. The only people I see myself in are succesful and established creatives, yet I have never found such luck. Maybe my ego is simply overinflated, maybe. I don't want to chase rainbows anymore.

Maybe this is melodramatic, maybe cruel people can laugh about it, maybe I shouldn't make it public, maybe I shouldn't be public. My art isn't worth sharing. It hurts too much to make to withstand the pain of silence. I want existence to end. I can end it. I might. I don't know. I don't know how much longer I can keep going while so spiritually, emotionally, and artistically alone.

I don't fit in anywhere, and no one wants me. I'm strange amongst the strange. I'm broken amongst the broken. I don't have the priviledge of real world art communities, resources, or connections; I come from rural poverty. I come from the gutter of American society. The gutter people do not even pity, but scorn and sneer at. Who could possibly care about or love a creature of the sewers? I'd like to drown, but realistically, I'll probably overdose. People who know me would be devastated, and this yanks me back to this terrible earth with a chokehold around my neck. I'm growing tired though. I'm growing very, very tired. And no one cares. "But nobody came." Maybe I'm evil. I'm too egotistical, blunt, and cruel. I see myself as different from others, I think rightly so, but maybe I'm not, maybe I'm boring. Maybe it's just cope. I'm artistically a failure. No one is my friend and equal.

I only have the few people I know in real life keeping me sane. I don't know why I crave more. I just thought maybe there was more. I thought there was. But the more I see, the more I realize there is, in fact, less.

Sincerely,
Nori Jammy