(But not like this.) // Every choice feels hard, these days. None of it is easy. Even thinking is heavy. I wish I could put more levity on my blog, but then I reflect on “everything happening in the world”, and lightness itself seems to lack compassion. (No sun today, just one big featureless cloud.)
So I wonder at (and then question) the detachment, the surreality of cat pictures and typewriters, the psycho-spiritual health of it. After all, these are presentations of leisure and privilege. (Blogging, by nature, is a presentation of leisure and privilege. As is writing, in general.) At what point does it become, (let alone beneficial or good), not even innocuous, but cruel?
(At the point that one “gains” one’s first reader?)
Writing, as leisure, preserves its own necessary and peculiar ignorance. This, alongside its irresponsibility. And writing, as an art form, must address it somehow. The whole, “What I do here comes at a price.”