An artist, or a con?
A short monologue on a recent compliment about being a serious artist.
Yesterday I was called serious.
Not as in, “grumpy”, but as in serious in my artistic craft on writing, and in my profile as an artist and a person in my entirety.
That made me smile for a moment, and feel an enormous sense of pride inside me.
It made me recollect the impression I have on my art, and my life, which is that of dilligence, devotion, and utmost dedication to the idealistic virtues I value and live by.
Then, I felt bad.
I felt bad because I was reminded that I am flawed.
I potray serious characters, which can move mountains and kingdoms, through the slightest move of their finger, but I feel week at times.
I have the audacity to encompass an entire philosophical concept for a character to live and die by, while I am frail in my own idealistic values, sporadically.
Am I worthy to speak about love, when I have hated?
Can I talk about faith, when I have been blinded by disbelief?
Countless thoughts came rushing into my head, when a single feeling took root and overcame all my doubts and self-loathing.
