I fear my happiness and pain are friends

I fear my happiness and pain are friends.

I fear. A lot. I fear the anticipation of loss. I fear of thinking of fear. I fear my happiness is just waiting, expecting suffering. I fear my happiness and pain are friends. I fear they hope to meet more often in my soul. I fear I let it happen uncontrolled. I fear I am comfortable in pain.

I fear my art resides in suffering. I fear my intellectual self is not allowed to be anything but hurt, as I am nothing but a servant of my art. I fear without it, my creation is just a senseless clownery. What am I, if not just a sum of the perceptions the others have of me and my art?

I fear I might not break free from the confines of gendered limitations. That I won’t be able to dance with the paradoxes of our desires, unearthing the transformative potential that defies traditional constraints. That I am restrained by the limitations of conventional language, where art becomes a play between the spoken and the unspoken. That I won’t hear the whispers of the soul when the essence of creative expression finds its origins in the preverbal and affective dimensions.

I seek pathways outside the familiar, contributing to the expansive discourse on creative expression that transcends societal expectations. I suffer and fear through art, yet my art is not exclusive to my pain.

↑Back to Top