I'm beginning to believe that trying to evaluate one's own work is the surest and quickest method for inducing insanity. I can hear the words in my head, waffling, teeter tottering, between righteous declarations of my genius and self loathing. It happens in the quickest fractions of a second and I'm almost convinced there are other personalities in there fully intent on carrying out this debate, and winning.
I try to stay the hell out of it really. I just hear them, try to drown them out with music, and focus on the work before me, like a kid taking a test in a crowded classroom. Can you see my arm wrapped around the perimeter of my paper, my back hunched, pencil scrawling, and lifting an eye on occasion to asses the danger of invasion?
And if the constant debate is the schizophrenic break from a fully grounded reality, the lack of outside feedback is the genetic predisposition to the illness. Or, more simply... Trying to evaluate my own work is making me crazy, and having no other feedback but my own (and that of those who love me and are therefore invested in my happy sanity) is the cause, origin, and straightjacket (continued instigator) of the whole affair.
Mind you, I'm not complaining... Well, maybe I am. But I'm not complaining to or about you, dear reader. It's more of a cosmic complaint, foisted up to the stars by no name artists, musicians, poets, etc.. for an eternity or more. You, dear reader, are here, reading, consuming my work and words. That alone, but also with statistical reports of your unanimous activity, is tremendously reassuring, nourishing even. And those of you who comment on occasion are really what keep me coming back to this space. It's one thing to know how many individuals come knocking on this door, but it's another thing all together to know, by your own words, that you relate to me and my constant companion named angst. (Doesn't it seem like the words "angst" should have an "x" in it? No? Ok, it's just me)