Ever since I closed the doors to my house, deciding to be more discerning of who all I let in into my life, I have stopped singing. I don't fly into rapture anymore; my voice no longer soars. I don't wake up in the middle of the night anymore with inspiration for a new song that I just have to take down. Be it sadness or joy, nothing compels me into singing anymore. I no longer sing just for the sake of it.
I can't consciously accept that I sing only for an audience. What kind of an artist find his art to be an inadequate inspiration, ever dependent upon the response his art generates in people to create more art? I couldn't be that kind of artist.
I force myself to create art just for my eyes. I keep the door closed, and on top of it, draw the blinds- my fortress is more secure than ever. I tell myself- if I'm a true artist, keeping out an audience won't have an impact on my creation- I'll be able to sing as before, I'll want to sing as much as I did before and I'll continue to draw pleasure from it as before, because seriously, nothing substantial has changed, right?
You see, I have been living in a state of dissonance.
Little did yours truly realize before today that her only release was in the songs she sang- the words she crafted. Since she had stopped writing for others, she had been stopped from having witnesses to her existence, and by and by, from finding a release.